


all touch corrupts (all must be corrupted)

by GuiltyBystanders



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (all sorts of repression really), (more angsty than funny), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Classism, Canon-Typical Sexism, Character Study, Drinking Games, FE3H Kinkmeme, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Original Character(s), One-Sided Attraction, Or Is It?, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Religious Guilt, Sexual Repression, Truth or Dare, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Crush, horny but make it repressed, i mean... it's pre-timeskip Lorenz, pointedly NOT masturbating, there are funny parts and there are horny parts but don’t let that fool you this is angst babeyyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyBystanders/pseuds/GuiltyBystanders
Summary: “Say, Lorenz, what exactly kind of trouble do you think a guy can get up to in the sauna?”Claude’s grin turns mockingly lecherous as he leans forwards towards Lorenz conspiratorially. Lorenz keeps his eyes firmly locked above Claude. This was not the first challenge to his self-control he’s faced, and it would not be his last. He is stronger than this.“What kind of a man do you think I am? And in that case, what kind of a man areyouto follow me in?”Or, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester struggles with Claude von Riegen, his repressed sexuality, and becoming a man worthy of his friends.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 69
Kudos: 159
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	1. confiteor dea omnipotenti (i confess to the goddess almighty)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. I wrote 70+ pages of fanfiction in 5 days instead of doing my finals. How’s quarantine going for you? This thing is literally twice the length of my entire capstone for my Creative Writing Degree, which is due in a few days, but I wrote this instead. Oops!
> 
> I’m incredibly shocked that this is the first fic I’ve written and posted in 7 years. Truthfully, I dislike Lorenz. But I was talking to my friend about how I could probably find Lorenz interesting if I put in the work to understand him. And then [ this prompt on the kinkmeme](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=239580) jumped out at me… So here we are, the first fic on my AO3 ever and it’s about fucking _pre-timeskip_ Lorenz. 
> 
> This entire fic is already written, and is only being released in chapters to give me time to edit/rewrite chunks, so it will definitely be finished. 
> 
> Title is from _Homebody/Kabul_ by Tony Kushner, a play I’ve not read but my beloved beta, [vellev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellev) (I love you bitch!!!!! go read his fics!!!), has. The chapter titles are from the Confiteor hymn, also the idea of vellev, who tricked me (see beta notes at the end of the chapter.)

Despite the crises that rocked their school days at Garreg Mach on a near-monthly basis, the vast majority of Lorenz’s current problems could be tied directly back to the singular entity of Claude von Riegen. Really, the constant threat of attack on their school and the missions to kill the family members of his fellow students would be entirely bearable if it were not for the constant and irritating presence of Claude. Granted, Claude wouldn’t be near so omnipresent in his life if Lorenz didn’t follow him around to make sure he wasn’t up to anything, but it was his duty as the _proper_ heir to the Alliance to make sure this interloper wasn’t involved in anything unseemly or nefarious, as he so blatantly seemed to be.

Yes, before Claude mysteriously appeared a year ago, seemingly from out of the ether for all the information anyone could find on him, Lorenz had had his entire life planned out before him. His father had raised him properly to be the next leader, and as distasteful as it was, the last von Riegen heir had barely been in the ground before his father had started maneuvering his alliances to ensure House Gloucester was the next in line instead of the Gonerils. So Lorenz would be the first of House Gloucester to rule the Alliance, and he would move away from his father’s self-interested ways. He would unify the disparate noble houses into a more united front, for the good of the commoners as well as his own house. He would marry a noblewoman who was befitting of his status: someone canny enough to keep up with the intricacies of the delicate and shifting social dynamics of the court; who could support his policies with her own house’s social sway; someone to be his ally in the certifiable minefield that was Alliance politics. A woman who could bear him children with the Crest of Gloucester, of course. That was a given. He could see it so clearly, all laid out before him: himself standing before a crowd as leader of the Alliance, a competent wife happily holding a baby on a midsummer day, and a satisfied commoner populace, content with their lot in life. 

And then, Claude von Riegen arrived, and snatched Lorenz’s future away for himself as easily as plucking fruit from a tree. He didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be regretful about it to Lorenz’s face—surely a sign he would never be capable of maneuvering the doublespeak of the Alliance’s turbulent political waters. No, instead he would laugh, or rebuff Lorenz’s perfectly valid concerns about the fact he appeared seemingly out of nowhere, without any of the proper schooling nobles were raised with that primed them to become worthy political leaders. 

No, Lorenz did not desire the Alliance throne out of arrogance or greed. He simply knew that he had been raised to meet the exacting standards required of a leader of such a caliber. It was just as clearly fact that Claude had not. How could such a discourteous man really be expected to lead a country when he couldn’t even remember the proper order to use different forks at the dining table?

And so, out of noble duty to his beloved people—indeed, out of love for his very country—he had a habit of following Claude and watching every little thing he did. Lorenz surely had more interesting daily pursuits he could be indulging in, but he alone was willing to do what must be done (what no one else seemed willing to do, even when he brought up the dangers of the unknown that Claude brought to the very heart of their complex but beautiful political system) for the good of the Alliance. 

At this moment—for the good of his country, mind you—he watches Claude enter the sauna. He grimaces. Lorenz hates the sauna. Even at the best of times, he avoids it at all costs. It invites… wholly unnecessary risks in his life, and it’s easier to steer clear of it altogether. And when it comes to his reconnaissance, well, the sauna is a tricky place to tail anyone, let alone someone as suspiciously perceptive as Claude. But if he wants to continue to be vigilant, he has no choice but to enter the sauna himself. These were the prices a noble must pay to do their civic duty. He gives it a minute before trailing in after, a pause hopefully long enough to make his presence seem nothing more than a mere coincidence. As he enters the changing room, he sees he has miscalculated. 

He thought, surely, that Claude would be done disrobing and already changed into his sauna gear. Instead, he’s sitting on the bench in front of his locker, facing the door, his shirt in front of him, wearing nothing but the sauna shorts. His legs and chest are bare, and as he looks up at Lorenz entering, he makes no move to put his shirt on. Instead, he cocks his head and gives Lorenz one of his infuriating smiles. Something inside of Lorenz seethes.

“Lorenz!” Claude spreads his arms in an ironic welcome, with seemingly no shame over his exposed state. Lorenz fixes his eyes on the open locker over Claude’s shoulder, scowling “How kind of you to join me. I thought I saw you skulking after me earlier, but I didn’t think you’d be direct enough to actually approach me.”

“I can assure you I was not _skulking_ ,” Lorenz says, scandalized by the accusation, as true as it may have been. “I was merely making certain you were not getting yourself, and the rest of our House by extension, into any trouble.”

“Say, Lorenz, what exactly kind of trouble do you think a guy can get up to in the sauna?” Claude’s grin turns mockingly lecherous as he leans forwards towards Lorenz conspiratorially. Lorenz keeps his eyes firmly locked above Claude. This was not the first challenge to his self-control he’s faced, and it would not be his last. He is stronger than this. “What kind of a man do you think I am? And in that case, what kind of a man are _you_ to follow me in?”

Lorenz can feel his cheeks burning. Surely from the heat leaking into the changing room from the sauna. Nothing more. “I’m sure I do not gather your meaning. I am simply here to relax, like most do in a sauna. Nevertheless, I am glad to see you’re not planning some new little weasley scheme while no one else is around to keep you in check.”

“You followed me to where no one else is around to keep me in check? Why, Lorenz,” says Claude, tone mocking the dignified cadence of Fodlan’s nobility, “I am loath to tell you, but I’m just not that kind of girl.” He bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly, once, twice, to drive his unseemly effeminate act home.

“Enough of this! I am here for the sauna, nothing more! Not everything is about you, Claude,” Lorenz lies. 

“Be my guest,” Claude says, the teasing, feminine lilt to his voice gone, and gestures to the sauna doorway from where he sits. His naked chest once again bared in the process. 

“I must change first!” Lorenz can hear his voice get too harsh. He must reign himself in, lest he reveals how affected he is.

“Do you see me stopping you?” 

“It’s not proper for me to bare myself in front of… in front of an audience!”

Claude groans. “Seriously, man, you’re so stuffy. It’s a changing room and we’re both guys, aren’t we? It’s not like I’m going to be over here secretly ogling your noble form.”

“Enough!” Lorenz snaps. He turns away, angrily wrenching open his locker and pulls out his sauna gear. He changes quickly as possible—even if Claude isn’t watching him, he still feels self-conscious, his natural Gloucester grace and elegance departing him in his discomfort. The tank top and shorts feel entirely inadequate in covering him properly in this situation, but there’s not much he can do about it at this point. When he’s finished changing he turns around, and Claude is sitting in the same position as before, watching the doorway, still in nothing but those scant shorts. “And why haven’t you covered yourself yet?”

“You know, in most parts of the world, they don’t have special clothing just for saunas.” Claude lifts a mostly bare leg up to rest on the bench next to him, and the loose fabric of the shorts slides down, exposing one of his muscular thighs. Lorenz turns his head away, stares at the doorway. He tells himself that it was just the heat from the sauna. He’s grown over the years, he’s suppressed any vile urges he may have once had. “It always seemed a little silly to me to put on clothes just for sweating in. I usually go to the sauna when it’s empty, so I just don’t wear the shirt.” Lorenz snaps back around to look at him, unable to stop from gaping, as undignified as an expression as it is. “But you’re clearly not going to be okay with that.”

Lorenz is struck speechless with indignation for a moment before sputtering out, “I should think not! To be in such a state of undress—publically!—is unconscionable! To think you would...” He trails off as Claude gets up from the bench and saunters over to him, closer and closer, until he’s only an arm’s length away.

“You know what,” Claude says, “I actually don’t really feel like having to wear my shirt in the sauna.” Lorenz swallows thickly, but Claude continues on without pause, bringing his hand up to clasp Lorenz’s shoulder. Proximity to the sauna has certainly warmed Claude up—his hand burns like a brand where it’s pressed against the exposed skin of Lorenz’s bare shoulder. Lorenz stares at it in mute horror, like one might not be able to tear their eyes away from sights of great calamity and destruction. “How about you use the sauna now and I can use it later, so I can be alone and not scandalize you with my—what did you say—state of undress?”

It takes a few seconds, but he finally figures out that this meeting itself was one of Claude’s schemes. He had been planning to use this stop in the sauna to shake Lorenz’s tail all along. “There’s no need—”

“No, no,” Claude says, raising his hand from Lorenz’s shoulder to lift his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You said yourself that you weren’t here to follow me, but for the sauna. Well, the sauna is all yours now. I’ll just go take my nefarious schemes elsewhere.”

“Surely you don’t have to leave just because of that?”

“Sorry. Unless you want… me.... in the sauna… with you… without a shirt on…” He punctuates every pause with a small step closer, inching forwards as Lorenz stumbles back a corresponding amount.

“I _certainly_ do not!” Lorenz snaps. Was that response a little too quick? He prays to the Goddess that Claude won’t comment on it. He can hear his heart thudding in his ears—speeding up from the indignance of this experience of this debacle, of course—and he’s terrified that Claude can somehow hear it from how close he’s standing. 

Claude shoots him a particularly disingenuous smile. “Well, in that case… bye!” He turns away, walks back towards his own locker.

Lorenz fumes, but he can’t exactly admit that he only came in here to follow Claude at this point. He’s already denied it and changed into his sauna clothes, so he can’t back down now. It’s entirely unfair how uncouth Claude can waltz about, ignoring the social norms of polite society, while Lorenz is bound to act as a proper noble. Still, he opens his mouth, searching for some final excuse. “I—”

Claude’s fingers deftly dip beneath the waistband of his shorts, hooking on the edge as if preparing to pull them down. “Better get to steaming, Lorenz, since you have such a thing about people changing in front of each other.”

What can Lorenz do but turn, red faced and shamed, into the heat of the sauna? His body already feels too warm as he’s stepping onto the damp cedarwood floor, even without dousing the stones for more steam. He sits primly on the bench, thankfully all alone because of the odd time of day. Perhaps Claude really did normally use the sauna around now so he could be shirtless… No, he shan’t think of that. Even with the steam not as thick as normal, it fills the air with a haze. He stares blankly into it. A minute later, he hears the slam of the locker and then the door as Claude leaves him. 

Now Claude has at least a half-hour of time free from Lorenz’s watchful gaze, and he knows it. He could get up to all sorts of half-brained plots without anyone to stop him, Lorenz sidelined as he is. While Lorenz is stuck here, sweating and stewing in his own thoughts. 

And on the edge of those thoughts, there is something else rising: that which he never lets himself acknowledge. He can feel himself not thinking of it, as so consciously not thought about it for years. 

He doesn’t think about it so hard that all he can think about is not thinking about it. 

He looks about the sauna, at the empty cedar room filled with steam and not much else to focus on, anywhere but his own pelvis. His stomach cramps and turns, nausea and shame rising bitter to the back of his throat.

He’s not thinking about it. He doesn’t think about it. This reaction too can be blamed on the heat of the sauna alone. He had fixed this problem, he _had_ , years ago.

He sits in the sauna as long as his body can take it. Until he’s woozy and lightheaded. Until his body’s discomfort is so sharp it’s all he can process. Then he stumbles on unsteady legs to the showers, banging his hip on the edge of the lockers as he trips into them before righting himself. He takes the coldest shower possible, and tells himself it’s because his body is overheating and that there is no other reason. He lets the frigid water run over him without scrubbing his body, too nervous to touch any part of himself right now, even innocently. For at this point, how can he be innocent? He knows the inner machinations of his own mind too well to pretend to be guiltless. His hip throbs where he hit it—it will surely bruise, and mar his perfectly unblemished skin for weeks. He focuses on that pain, and on the cold of the water, on his brain’s lightheadedness from the change in temperature—on that, and nothing else. 

Yes, Lorenz had had his entire life planned out before Claude showed up and ruined everything: his plans for the future and the carefully built defenses to the parts of himself he could never acknowledge. Surely the Alliance could not properly be led by a man who had destroyed everything Lorenz held dear in one fell swoop.

* * *

Lorenz would be ashamed to admit it first started with the stableboy. Of course, he would be ashamed to admit it no matter who was involved—rather, he would never admit it at all. But in the scant privacy of his own mind, when he allowed himself to turn it over and feel the sting of self-recrimination, he was ashamed to admit it started with a stableboy. Both his problems were contained within that one word: stable and boy. A commoner, and someone of the same sex.

He had been innocent, then. Even in the dawn of his thirteen year, he was not yet fully aware of the dangerous implications of his… predilections. He’d not even been aware of what exactly he was feeling. He’d just known that there was a boy—slightly older, already starting to show the signs of adulthood in the width of his shoulders and the fuzz on his chin—who always caught his eye. The Gloucester House employed many stableboys, of course, as they had the finest stock of horses in all the Alliance, perhaps all of Fodlan, excepting, of course, the bothersome von Aegirs. But it was only this one particular stableboy that Lorenz found himself so fascinated with. 

He did not know his stableboy’s name then and he hadn’t ever learned it. How could he? He would never have talked to him, of course. Dear goddess, even when young he knew his place as a noble better than to consort directly with the _help_! But Lorenz would watch him as he readied his horse: the strength in the bunching muscle of his arms and back as he lifted the saddle atop the horse; his firm, calloused hands working the supple leather of the girth as he secured it; his soft touch when stroking the horse’s velvet snout to calm the beast. He’d lead the horse over to Lorenz, who’d feel a thrill of something he didn’t know how to name—who would later wish he’d never named it at all. 

Lorenz, filled with this unnamable feeling and the stubbornness of youth, would try to swing himself atop the horse from a mounting block too short for him, and when he started to struggle, his stableboy would lift him the rest of the way, one hand on his side and another on his knee. He’d feel those two points of contact—strong hands that never lingered, perfectly respectful to a social superior and employer—no matter how many layers he wore out riding, even when bundled for the chill of winter. Two points of heat, of connection, burning him to the core. He’d feel flustered for reasons he didn’t quite understand and gallop away as soon as he was situated in the saddle, no matter how rude it might be to take off with no notice. 

Lorenz had puzzled over this fascination and the burning feelings that came with it idly, but never prodded too deep. It was probably some form of self-preservation on the part of his subconscious. No, he had just visited the stables whenever the desire hit him too, hoping no one would notice how much more frequently that desire came at that time, or that it only struck when one particular worker was on shift. In hindsight, that was probably one of the reasons he ended split between training with Reason and Lance—he’d planned to specialize in Reason to optimize his use of Thyrsus, but lances could be used on horseback with greater ease than magic, and he’d wanted every excuse to run to the stables in those days. He had continued thinking his strange interest in his stableboy was something perhaps a bit strange but harmless for several months. Up until the day he entered the stables (walking at a completely reasonable pace and not at all an undignified hurry) and saw his stableboy wrapping a scullery maid in his embrace. 

Lorenz had frozen at the sight. He had pressed himself against the wall behind the bales of hay and had barely enough courage to peek around to watch.

What he had seen was his stableboy pushing the maid up against the wall of one of the empty stalls. His rough hands had gently cradled her face, one thumb swiping over her cheek and the other buried in her messy curls. Their lips had moved together, against each other, hungrily. Lips and teeth. Tongues and spit. She had let out a little breathy moan, and then together they laughed about it, even as his hand moved from her face to begin tentatively exploring beneath her shirt. His movements were as strong, yet gentle as the way he treated the horses—as steady and attentive as they were when he placed one hand on Lorenz’s side and one on his knee to help him swing fully onto the back of the horse.

Lorenz had stumbled backward, his heart thumping in his chest. He had been painfully hard in his tight riding breeches, and yet all he felt like was crying. His movement had knocked over a broom leaning on the wall, and he had barely ducked into the tack room before his—no, the—the stableboy and his lover looked that way. He had shoved himself into the smallest, darkest corner of the tiny room and hoped more than anything they wouldn’t investigate further. He didn’t… he couldn’t be seen like that, as he struggled to keep himself still and silent among the whirlwind of emotions he was feeling. He had still been achingly hard—since the onset of puberty, he’d often become erect at inconvenient times, but never like this, never so directly over something he had seen. Despite his arousal, his stomach had churned with an unpleasant feeling of betrayal he didn’t quite understand. He had to work to keep his breathing even as the negative emotions had overwhelmed him. He heard their footsteps, precursory and searching, as they looked for the source of the noise.

Eventually, his sta—the stableboy had said, “Must have been one of the barn cats. They’re always getting into mischief.”

“Does that mean we still have a little time to get back to it?” his paramour asked. A couple more footsteps, and the sound of something hitting the wall gently a few feet away, right outside the entrance to the tack room Lorenz hid in. A few more soft, wet noises. 

“We better not,” the stableboy said, though he clearly had had trouble listening to his advice from the noises filtering in. “The little lordling will likely be in in a few minutes, and we can’t have his esteemed father beheading me for corrupting his innocence while on the clock.” More wet smacking sounds. “Afterall, how could the kid keep up his oh-so-proper noble demeanor if he saw you like _this_.” 

She had giggled breathily at whatever he had done, and then she had said the thing that nearly ruined Lorenz’s life. “I don’t know. From what… ah… you’ve told me about him, it sounds like... mmn… he’d be more interested in you than me.”

The stableboy had let out a laugh, half amused, half nervous. “Don’t joke like that, or his dad will have both my head _and_ his. Besides,” and his voice dropped low and flirtatious, “I don’t want to be thinking about the kid like that when I’m spending time with you.”

But even as the stableboy had brushed it off—Lorenz was stuck in that dark little corner, listening to them talk about him as they kissed—he had known, with a thrill of absolute horror, that the maid had been right, joke or no. When he had gotten so achingly aroused, it wasn’t at the few flashes he saw of the unknown young woman, it was at the hard, strong body of the stableboy covering her, stroking up and down her body, those large hands against the bare flesh of her stomach under her shirt. The feeling of betrayal he had felt, it was born of jealousy. His stomach had churned with more than just inner emotional turmoil then, and he struggled down the urge to vomit, to cry. He had known he couldn’t let anyone see him like that. He was sure they’d know the dirty, shameful thoughts he’d had just by looking at him. They would take one look and see deep inside his mind, and they would find him unforgivable. 

He had heard about men who wanted men and women who wanted women, vaguely. Mean-spirited jokes about the dirty things ignorant commoners did to each other and whispered rumors about faithless noble scions who brought shame on their families by running off with lovers, leaving their houses to ruin. People who transgressed like that weren’t suffered lightly among Fodlan’s nobility. How could they be, when they’d selfishly throw away the goddess’s gift to their bloodline and refused to carry on their crest in the next generation? He’d struggled to understand: How could he be like them? How could he be _one_ of them? He’d always been devout, as his father taught him a true noble should be, so how could he turn against the goddess in this way? How could someone raised to be the highest pinnacle of nobility be something so dirty and base and wrong? He could only picture the shame and horror and disgust on his parents’ faces if they were ever to find out their sole heir was like _this_.

So engrossed in his whirlwind of negative thoughts he had been, he hadn’t even heard the maid and stableboy separate, or her departure. He didn’t come out of his own head until the stableboy had come into the tack room to get Lorenz’s saddle ready for his daily ride and saw him there—scrunched as far back into the corner as he would go, covered in dust and cobwebs and dirty in more ways that one. Despite his shame and horror and upset stomach, he was still half-hard. If he untucked his legs from the ball he had curled himself into, it would surely be obvious through his riding breeches, and the thought of that had brought another surge of nausea and a whimper he had barely bit back. The stableboy had frozen, clearly embarrassed at what Lorenz might have overheard but unsuspecting of any deeper reaction to it. 

“Ah, young Count Gloucester! I didn’t know you were in here.” He had paused, and when Lorenz said nothing, prompted him further. “I don’t suppose you heard anything?” His voice had been kind, like it always was the few times he talked to Lorenz directly. He had taken a few steps towards Lorenz, who had shrunk back further into the corner. “If, er, you did, I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell your father…”

It had been more than Lorenz could take. He had sprung out of the corner and run as fast as he could towards the castle, no matter how undignified it was, hoping his speed would hide what was left of his flagging erection. He pelted past startled servants. He had slammed the door —like some kind of ruffian!—and locked it the second it was closed. He had sat down on his bed heavily and finally allowed the sobs to take him. 

How could… how could he be _like this?_ Shame had welled up within him and he had to fight back the urge to destroy something to vent his overwhelming emotions—even in the depths of his despair over his own depravity, he had known such behavior was unbecoming of a noble. And then he had remembered that apparently, he wasn’t a very good noble after all if he had such disgusting thoughts like this. Still, that only meant that now more than ever, he must cling to his upbringing. If he was wrong in this way, he knew that meant he simply must become the perfect noble in every other way. So instead of throwing the objects in his room about as he wanted, he had sat there on his bed, clenching his fists tight enough for the nails to break the fragile skin of his palms. There were levels of emotion that were acceptable and those that were unacceptable, even in private. He had kept his crying to a minimum. 

As he had cried, he attempted to will his erection away. In the past, when he had found himself with this sort of… problem, he would have simply taken care of it himself, quickly and discreetly, as is befitting of a young man of his status. This time, he had refused to touch himself, to give in to his own immorality. He was thirteen now, after all. Instead, he had used his utter despair to chase away any lingering arousal he felt—buried the sight of those strong hands making such gentle movements, the sounds of kissing, under as much disgust and shame as he could muster. 

He had known what he had to do. He would not let himself indulge in this… this unacceptable behavior. He would bury it down, as deep as he could. He had always known that his personal feelings wouldn’t influence the choice of his bride. Most noblemen he knew didn’t love their wives as anything other particularly trusted business partners, his own father included. This was all merely an extension of that. As long as he ignored this part of him, never acknowledged it, buried it deep within him and refused to ever look at it, everything would be exactly the same as before. No one had to know the shame he brought upon House Gloucester by being this way. He had thought back to what the stableboy had said, “or his dad will have both my head _and_ his.” Yes. He would just have to make sure it was buried deep. 

He had sat rigidly on his bed until he was entirely unaroused and his tears had dried. Then he had washed his face and brushed his hair and changed into clean clothing, his inner filth hidden by his noble and polished exterior. And then he had gone to find his father. The first step to managing his new condition would be mitigating the temptations around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Notes: [ lorenz at the sauna be like](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NP-RsRGzVo)
> 
> He fucking got me to name my chapter titles all that fancy latin then revealed like 7 hours later it was so he could make that joke.


	2. sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis (to the holy apostles and to all the saints)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz has two uncomfortable run-ins with his newly transferred classmates and doesn't think a single gay thought, no siree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and the next) are a bit shorter and I almost combined them, but I need to edit the next part bit more (and it worked better with the chapter naming scheme to break it up) so I'm posting them separately. 
> 
> It’s not my Blue Lion bias showing, his supports with Mercedes and Sylvain are just good.
> 
> Once again, thanks to the one and only [vellev](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24122791/chapters/58075903), my beta and secret love. I hope you enjoy the next installment of Lorenz Horny-Depression Hour.

There are many eligible young noblewomen at Garreg Mach, though he is still weeding out which ones are most appropriate for marriage. After all, only the most powerful and capable woman would be suitable to be the future Countess Gloucester. As such, he uses his school days to pursue the lucky young women with a single minded determination. This has the dual effect of helping him find the most suitable future wife while also covering up for any nasty little rumors that might start otherwise. No one would expect that a man as charming and popular with the ladies, such as he, might have anything but the healthiest appreciation for their feminine charms. Because he does, of course. To think anything otherwise has become impossible, even for himself.

He throws himself at women with a reckless abandon that garners the attention of several unwanted outside sources. Sylvain has thought fit to comment on his technique, as if that faithless lothario was anyone he would want to emulate in his search for his perfect wife. And there had been his professor, as embarrassing as that whole conversation had been, somehow convinced that Lorenz was bothering the women he was respectfully offering to share his life with! Though perhaps the worst was Mercedes. In all honesty, he’d been hoping to avoid her for several reasons. Primarily, it’s because she is a commoner woman, and as lovely as he’s sure she is, he had no use of her—beyond protecting her as he would any other commoner. Perhaps harsh, but true, nonetheless. 

The other, secondary reason is that he’s heard rumors that she saw through to the heart of people—as easily as if she was the goddess herself, if Ignatz was to be believed. People had said that about her too back at the Royal Academy of Sorcery in Fhirdiad, too. And more recently, he’d seen other students encounter her in the chapel, or be scheduled on the same chore rotation as her, and they’d stumble back with a healthy new understanding of themselves after she’d laid their deepest insecurities bare for all to see. Lorenz didn’t want nor need a new healthy understanding of himself, as he figured that out for himself well enough, no outside help needed. He didn’t want his secrets laid out for her knowing eyes.

In their few interactions so far, she had… not been a fan of him, despite his gentlemanly treatment of her, and has made that very clear. But she also hadn’t figured out his secret, simply accusing him of not respecting those of lower birth—which was patently untrue! A nobleman simply showed their respect to commoners in a different way than commoners used for each other, a more refined way befitting the higher classes—and nothing else. As offended as he was, he’s glad she didn’t seem to want to probe his psyche any deeper. 

Everyone else had been excited that she had recently joined their class, Ignatz and Hilda in particular, but he couldn’t suppress his fear. His avoidance of her surely only increased her ire, as she falsely attributed it to her lower birth rather than her uncanny wisdom (as if he did not regularly speak to Leonie in a respectful manner, despite her common bloodline and rather lacking manners!) 

Still, they were classmates now, and he had to learn to work with her, so he talked to her early this day. Loathe as he was to risk approaching her, he was at his wit's end with her attitude in battle. He intended to command—ask her to stay farther back in battles, so he could do his noble duty and protect her. She had not been pleased with him, and her comments had cut just as deeply as before, the only thing to soften the blow the fear she would delve deeper. 

And then, the thrill of abject terror.

“You claim that you don’t want to be involved with common women, don’t you?” she had said. He had been all but ready to beg her to stop before she had continued with, “But I know, deep in your heart, you love being around us. You’re willfully ignorant to that.” She had shaken her head sadly as his legs almost gave way from relief. Ha! So much for her goddess-like emotional omnipotence. “I hope you know what you’re depriving yourself of.”

He had felt much more confident in his reply then. “I’m certain I’ve told you before that my marriage must be beneficial to House Gloucester. I’ve not the time for fruitless courtship.”

She hadn’t liked that either. “Fruitless?! Ugh! How can you say such things? What would happen if you fell in love with a commoner?” And once again the conversation had started to hit a little close to home. Was nothing safe with her? Regardless of who he fell in love with, commoner or noble, because of what they’d be, his answer would always be the same. 

“Nothing at all,” he had said. “I accept the role that I must play, and any sacrifice that must accompany it.”

“So, your duty as a noble is more important than your own feelings?”

“Naturally.” On this point, he had been certain ever since he was young, shoved in the corner of a tack room, covered in dirt and cobwebs. It was the core tenet by which he lived his life, and he was proud of it. Not many others could pride themselves on such willful self-control or such an endlessly selfless nature. 

But she had shaken her head and given him a look of such real pity that it had shaken him to the core. “If that’s true,” she had said, “then your whole existence is rather sad.” He struggled to keep his offense off of his face. He had decided this for himself, for the good of his house, for his own good. What did she know, when she didn’t even know the truth of him? How dare she?

“I am afraid you misunderstand.” As irked as he had felt, he kept himself polite. He was still a nobleman talking to a commoner, after all. “This is my choice. There is no cause for pity.”

She had left after that, and still reeling a bit, Lorenz had made his way to the dining hall, where he sits now, picking at his fruit and herring tart. Even though it is a dish he enjoys, he finds himself unable to do more than absently lift his fork to his mouth every few minutes. Curse that dratted girl—this is what happens when commoners don’t pay nobles the proper respect!

He is snapped from his reverie by a loud commotion a few tables away. A young woman—a commoner, he knew—had apparently just slapped Sylvain, judging by the way he’s rubbing his reddened cheek and she shouts at him. Sylvain seems to be apologizing, but his insincere tone betrays him yet again, and she storms off. Sylvain casts his eyes around and sees the heir of Galatea waiting angrily for him at the table he’s en route to, and so he does an about-turn and starts towards Lorenz. 

Lorenz can sympathize—when he’d respectfully brought up the notion of courting to her earlier in the year, he’d received a tongue-lashing so harsh it could put even his father to shame—and she’s already been particularly waspish to Sylvain after he joined their house at the start of the year. Sylvain claimed he had joined simply to “get to know the professor better, if you know what I mean,” but Lorenz has a hard time imagining anyone making such a large life choice based solely on attraction. And as ample as their professors many… charms are, Manuela herself had been teaching the Blue Lion House so it’s not like he hadn’t been getting an eyeful already. Still, Lorenz can understand a need for secrets—at least among those who are not slated to be the next head of a country—and so he’s never pushed the issue out of a mixture of respect and fear that he’s grossly misunderstanding how attraction to women works. 

Sylvain slides into the spot next to him—a strange habit of Garreg Mach, that people sat next to their dining companions rather than across, except for his professor, who seemed to have missed the cue—and gives him a commiserating look. 

“You can’t win them all, huh?” 

“Ha! Certainly not with _your_ level of skill.” 

“You’re one to talk. Like you didn’t strike out with Mercedes earlier today.”

“You’re right,” he says, primly. “I did not strike out with her, because I was simply approaching her as a noble, with concern over her well being on the battlefield.”

Sylvain snorts. “Sure, buddy, you tell yourself that.” 

Lorenz buries his satisfaction at Sylvain’s utter acceptance of his attraction to women under his offense that Sylvain thinks he would try and court a commoner. “We aren’t all so willing to have dalliances with the lowborn as you, Sylvain,” he says.

Sylvain laughs with genuine mirth. “Wow, I completely forgot that you could be such a dick!”

Lorenz is about to tell him off for saying such a rude, uncouth, unwarranted thing when Claude drops into the spot across the table, the one usually reserved for the professor and her steadily increasing amount of daily lunches with her students. Lorenz shuts his mouth with a snap.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Claude says. “It looked like the conversation was just about to get interesting. I almost wanted to wait before coming over to see what would happen.” His elbow is on the table (how barbaric!) so that he can lean his head on his hand as he looks them over, a playful smile—clearly at Lorenz’s expense—tugging at his lips. Lorenz looks down at his food.

Since the sauna two weeks ago, he’s been doing his best to both monitor and ignore Claude at the same time. He can’t let his duty to his country fall by the wayside because of… personal complications, and someone needs to make sure von Riegen isn’t leading them all to ruin. But at the same time, it would be unwise to willfully expose himself to too much of Claude’s presence—just as the stableboy had to go, Lorenz knows he should avoid thinking about or interacting with Claude when not entirely necessary. This has led to a lot of tailing Claude and then abruptly leaving when he starts to feel the slightest hint of anything other than loyal devotion to his country. Unfortunately, hypervigilance to anything that might lead to inappropriate thoughts has mostly led him to be aware of just how many things can tempt the weakness inside of him, and so he’s avoided Claude entirely the past few days as he’s thought of a new plan of attack. He’s been more aware of not thinking about _things_ in the past two weeks than he has been since he first found this out about himself and was still struggling to keep everything properly repressed.

He’s vaguely aware of Sylvain and Claude talking to each other. Sylvain is saying, “your arrival seems to have taken all the wind from his sails, so I guess I have to thank you for saving me.”

Claude is saying, “Well, that’s not as fun, but I’m happy I could help you.”

Lorenz is sure they say other things too, but he’s finally remembered how to do more than just play with his food, and his mouth is always too full to add anything to the conversation (not that he trusts his dining companions to always eat with their own mouths closed.) He only looks up when Claude bangs his hand on the table to punctuate whatever it is that he’s saying.

“... that’s why I told Seteth it’s more important now than ever! I’m sure you agree with me, Sylvain.” 

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And you, Lorenz?”

Lorenz has no idea what they’re talking about, but he can hazard a guess at what his response would be if these two fools are in favor of it. “Absolutely not!”

Claude gives Sylvain a knowing look that clearly means _see what I have to deal with?_ and Lorenz fumes. 

“Feasts are important for morale and help with team bonding,” Claude says slowly, like he’s explaining it to a child, like he’s said a thousand times before, and oh goddess, not this claptrap again. The fool is obsessed with throwing feasts at the smallest occasions, even when it would perhaps behoove them to be more subtle in their celebrations. Lysithea passes her certification exam, even though it’s obvious she would and she hates feeling condescended to? Feast. Marianne makes a new friend, and presumably doesn’t want attention drawn to it? Feast. Mercedes, Sylvain, and Petra join their house, and would probably appreciate some time to settle in first? Feast. There’s a spot of particularly nice weather, no other reason at all? Why not have yet another feast? They were an inescapable part of having Claude as their house leader, and it frankly worries him what it will mean for the Alliance in the future if Claude does indeed become their ruler. 

He sighs. “What’s the reason this time?”

Claude lifts a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Lorenz, I’m shocked a noble of your _caliber_ wasn’t listening when his dining companion was speaking? Aren’t you always telling me I need to be better about that?”

He scowls because it’s true, but that’s mostly because Claude seemingly has the most atrocious listening skills whenever Lorenz is involved, for how rarely he takes his advice. “I apologize for my preoccupation, but as what you were saying was clearly inane, I find it hard to be overly regretful.” 

Sylvain raises an eyebrow and Claude holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Uh, ok. Someone’s a little snippy today. It’s Hilda’s birthday tomorrow. _And_ Teach was apparently just granted the power of the goddess, with a bombshell makeover to match. What’s there not to celebrate?”

He thinks it’s a little gauche to celebrate something so holy with one of Claude’s little soirées, but Hilda would definitely demand a party, so perhaps this was finally an appropriate time to have a feast. “Very well. When and where?”

Claude grins and leans over the table to give Lorenz’s arm a friendly pat. Lorenz forces himself not to flinch away. “I knew you’d come around. Tomorrow night at 10:00, in the greenhouse. And don’t tell Teach or Flayn, alright? It’s a school night and this is gonna be a teen—and Mercedes—only party, no Seteth or professors allowed.”

Lorenz grimaces as Sylvain lets out a cheer. A “teen only” party was shorthand that there would be alcohol present. He didn’t approve of the younger members of the house being exposed to it, but there was little he could do to change Claude’s mind, especially if he was already excluding Flayn because of that. “I thought you said this was partially to celebrate the professor, and yet you’re not inviting her?”

Claude shrugs. “It’s to celebrate Hilda more, so we’re going to do what she wants. What Teach doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“Yeah, come on, Lorenz,” Sylvain says, slinging one of his toned arms around Lorenz’s shoulder and pressing close, too close, against his side. “It’ll be a fun time. Maybe you’ll loosen up a bit.”

Loosening up, even a bit, at this point in time, when self-control has been so hard to find, sounds like just about the worst-case scenario for Lorenz, but he’s not about to say that. He shrugs Sylvain’s arm off. “I will be there and I won’t tell. That I can promise you.”

“It’s something at least.” Claude gets up from the table. “I still gotta track down Ignatz and Leonie to tell them, but you crazy kids have your fun without me.”

Lorenz doesn’t watch him as he leaves, turning instead back to his picked over food. Sylvain is still pressed slightly too close to his side for comfort. “So,” Sylvain says, “what do you think about the professor’s new look? For all your faults, I know you’re a guy who can appreciate beauty.”

Beauty, Lorenz can talk about. The new color of the professor’s hair and eyes were objectively very nice, if unsettling, and he can use careful wording to imply an attraction beyond simple aesthetic appreciation if he plays his card right. And so he rhapsodizes about the professor, not thinking about the twist in Claude’s smile or the infuriating, mischievous sparkle in his green eyes, not thinking about how close Sylvain is sitting next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz is allowed to have little a attraction to Sylvain, as a treat.
> 
> Beta Notes: [Lorenz talking to Sylvain be like](https://youtu.be/yEnwtJ_697I?t=55)
> 
> My tumblr is [guiltybystanders](https://guiltybystanders.tumblr.com) and my twitter (freshly made! I'm looking to follow people!) is [aguiltybystandr](https://twitter.com/aguiltybystandr). Follow me if you want to see more of this bullshit.


	3. et tibi pater (and to you, father)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz, two years ago, at the Royal Academy of Sorcery at Fhirdiad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't publish this yesterday. The wifi crapped out (as I was finishing up my finals no less) and I wasn't able to get access to my writing and AO3 until it was so late it was like "might as well wait." 
> 
> This is another shorter chapter, but the next chapter is like probably over 7k words, so think of it as a breather before teen party shenanigans happen. 
> 
> Warning for this chapter: homophobic bullying and the use of homophobic slurs depicted. 
> 
> Once again, [ vellev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellev) I love you. Thanks to him for both his editing and his necessary notes to include at the end.

He had been delighted to go to the Royal Academy of Sorcery at Fhirdiad. A chance to spread the word of the talent and name Lorenz Helmen Gloucester throughout the most elite magic users in all of Fodlan. A small part of him had wondered if perhaps here, half a continent away from home and his father’s disapproving gaze, he might… no, it was folly, and he dismissed the thought even before he could finish it. 

But regardless, he had fully enjoyed the half-year he had spent there before political unrest sent him home unfortunately early. His first time in a climate so cold when he was used to sun and warmth, and yet sometimes it felt like the opposite was true. He had done well in his classes, was popular among the women, and thrived in the adulation he received for being the next head of the Alliance—not that it was arrogance, mind you, it was simply nice to be appreciated. 

And why wouldn’t people appreciate him? He had dedicated himself to being the finest noble he could possibly be, to make up for any possible… defects. People were usually too dazzled by his magnificence to look any closer at his frayed edges, and when the jealous or concerned came sniffing out his weaknesses, he was adept at distracting him with some trifle or another. 

So yes, he had enjoyed those school days. He had been a bit lonely at times—as he was the social superior to almost everyone there, most people never dared approach him or kept conversations brief, but he took this isolation simply as the burden of his excellence and highborn breeding—but not more so than he felt back home, so he had thrived nonetheless. 

And he had had one friend there, Alkund, a Faerghan boy his own age from the Mateus family. Not the most influential or important of noble houses in Faerghus, but noble enough that Lorenz could treat him as an equal. They hadn’t been as inseparable as Mercedes von Martritz and Annette Fantine Dominic—the latter who was noble but whose father had run off, leaving his house in disarray, leaving her no longer a viable candidate for his future wife—but they would study together and ate most of their meals together in the dining hall. Alkund had been a quiet boy, understated and a little meek, and he appreciated having someone as bold and charming as Lorenz to stick up for him. As an aspiring mage, he’d neglected to exercise physically, and that combined with his short stature, he cut a rather scrawny figure. Two years later, at an entirely different school, he would lock eyes on Ignatz and be struck immediately by the similarities between them. 

Lorenz had appreciated Alkund for two reasons: for his steady, friendly comradery, the likes of which Lorenz had never experienced with a peer before, and for the fact that Lorenz had never felt the slightest inkling of an impure thought towards him. Here had been a young man that Lorenz was closer to than anyone else outside of his family, and yet despite their bond and the time they spent together, Lorenz had never felt even the smallest stir of anything untoward. Lorenz had viewed him as a sort of cure, as well as a companion. 

Anytime Lorenz had become insecure, in those days at the Royal Academy, about his own iron will and self-control, he would find Alkund to reassure himself that he was recovering. They had spent many a long afternoon in the library together, and the occasional evening taking tea in one or another of their rooms. He had worried, then, that he would never feel comfortable enough with his own self-control to spend time in the personal chambers of another man, but here was Alkund to prove him wrong. 

They would sit across a little table from each other, knees close enough to brush, and yet Lorenz had never noticed or cared beyond retaining the respectful amount of distance for simple propriety. Lorenz would pour the tea despite his higher status because his brewing skills were vastly superior to anyone in the Academy’s, to say nothing of Alkund’s paltry performance. He would make some sort of witty quip, and Alkund would give his nervous little laugh at something Lorenz had said, and Lorenz would watch his bashful little smile and congratulate himself on feeling nothing. Yes, Alkund was ever the balm to his troubled soul, the reminder that it was possible, even easy, to control his lust. 

Still, all things are ephemeral, and even before the abrupt and premature closing of the Academy that year, trouble had been brewing. With such a timid and delicate boy as Alkund, he had been very easy to bully and spread baseless rumors about, as he hadn’t had the backbone to defend himself. All year, Lorenz had taken to defending Alkund for him. That was how their friendship had started originally—Lorenz stepping in against one of his harassers, who had seemed to have chosen Alkund as his victim simply because he would not fight back. Even before he had known of Alkund’s strength of character, he simply could not abide to see such pointless cruelty to anyone, noble or common. The bullying had slowed down quite a bit since Lorenz had fulfilled the role of Alkund’s personal protector—practice for his protection of commoners when he was Leader of the Alliance, he had assured Alkund whenever he’d gotten bashful about needing help—but it had never fully stopped. Most of the harassing had come in the form of aspersions he was weak and unskilled, or that he was a bastard since he lacked his family’s crest and his hair was a little less bright in its blue hue than his siblings. Still, it had all been manageable until the last month of school—though they had not known it would be the last month at that time. 

Alkund had approached him dejectedly at lunch one day. He was often in these moods, melancholy soul that he was, but they were usually brought on by something in particular. 

“What’s wrong?” Lorenz had asked. “Anything I can help you with?”

Alkund had sighed lightly but shook his head. “No, but thank you all the same. It’s just more stupid rumors.”

“Well, we certainly can’t let that stand! Who’s saying things this time? Is it Wallace again?”

Alkund had shaken his head again, more emphatically this time. “I don’t think you stepping in this time is going to help. It might actually make things worse.”

“Whatever for? If they’re saying you’re too weak to stand up for yourself again, then it is I who must remind them that—”

“It’s not that,” Alkund had cut him off, forgetting his manners. “They’re saying that I’m queer.” Everything within Lorenz had frozen. He could barely hear it as Alkund had continued, “If you confront them about it, they might pull you into it too.”

He could hardly feel his body as he had clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. The noise of the bustling dining hall had sounded like it was muffled with thick cotton stuffed into his ears. His lunch, which he had previously been somewhat excited to eat, struck him as unappetizing suddenly, the aroma turning from a normal sweetness to rancid with just those few words. He had known his reaction probably seemed unnatural and forced himself to speak. “Well, be that as it may, we can’t allow them to spread baseless slander about you. Still, because of the particularities of this rumor, perhaps it is better not to address it at all. When something is simply so absurd, even acknowledging it gives it credence.”

Alkund had agreed and started going on about something or other, but Lorenz couldn’t help but examine his companion in a new light. Was it true? Had he thought himself safe from the stain of his perversion with Alkund, only for it to turn out he’d been in the lion’s den the whole time? Alkund hadn’t seemed particularly affected by the rumor, at least no more than he usually was, but if he truly was like _that_ then… well, Lorenz was a handsome and charming young man who played the role of his constant protector! There would be no way he was free from Alkund’s attraction. But no, it certainly wasn’t true. The other students had always lied about Alkund, and this was no different. Still, he knew he would have to keep his distance a bit more in the future just in case it was true, if only for the poor boy’s sake—it wouldn’t do to lead him on. 

After that, he had pulled back from Alkund a bit. No more evenings spent alone in his room with just the two of them, others invited to study sessions and meals, a little extra room left in between when sitting next to each other. He had been able to tell that Alkund noticed and was a little upset by it, but for once his meek nature was in Lorenz’s favor, as he was too timid to confront him over it. Still, they had maintained their comradery at a more appropriate level for the next week or so. Whenever someone had referenced the accursed rumor, Lorenz had laughed it off and defended Alkund’s honor. How could the sole heir of House Gloucester, the future leader of the Alliance mind you, consort with a known pervert? He had made sure they all knew the very idea of it was laughable. It hadn’t been until people started becoming more directly aggressive that it had truly become a problem.

It had happened in the changing room, already a fraught location for Lorenz—he had been a sixteen-year-old boy and there had been a reason he so frequently needed the comfort of not being attracted to Alkund in those days. Wallace, the most persistent of Alkund’s tormentors—his family’s territory had been passed over in a lucrative land deal in favor of House Mateus recently, and he seemingly felt some lingering resentment over it—had approached him and cornered him up against the wall. The rest of the boys present had either pointedly ignored what was happening, or had watched without intervening—some with sadistic glee, some with obvious but ineffectual disapproval. Lorenz had wanted to intervene, but his limbs weren’t working like normal. He had been frozen in place. 

“I don’t want a queer like you changing in here with us,” Wallace had growled out, using his significant height advantage to loom over Alkund. “I don’t want you getting off on me, freak.”

“I’m not queer,” Alkund had protested weakly.

Wallace had just laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d tell us all if you were.” His face had grown more dangerous by the second. “You can’t hide it from us.”

Swallowing his fear, Lorenz stepped towards them. Regardless of his fear, he couldn’t let someone continue to harass his innocent companion, even if their relationship had grown slightly more distant. Moving forwards, his movements had felt jerky and awkward, and he had been certain that everyone watching could tell that he’d been lacking his usual grace. “That’s quite enough, Wallace,” he had said, and his voice had cracked unpleasantly. “Alkund is not queer, and I would thank you to stop saying that he is.”

Wallace had turned his head slightly to look at him and given him an ugly smirk. “And you’d know, would you? You two do spend an awful lot of time alone together.”

“Please refrain from implying anything so revolting.” Lorenz had felt his fair, unblemished skin heat up, coloring with unpleasant red blotches. “I know because if he were queer, I wouldn’t deign to spend such time with him.”

“I don’t know,” Wallace had said, tapping his finger to his lips consideringly. As he turned further towards Lorenz, Alkund ducked from under his arm and retreated to a safe distance away. “You do spend all of your time running after him, trying to swoop in and save him like some heroic storybook prince. Maybe you’re just playing the long con to get your dick sucked?” 

“If you think that I, the heir of Gloucester, would ever do something so—”

But Wallace had latched onto the new torment with delight. “Maybe we were wrong, and you’re the queer one.” Lorenz had done his very best to suppress his flinch, praying to the goddess that no one had noticed as fervently as he ever had. “Or maybe you’re both queer and those little tea parties you have together are just a code for something else.” He looked over to one of his lackeys. “Which one do you think is taking it up the ass? I can’t imagine either of them being man enough to dish it out.” There were several snickers throughout the lockers, even from unrelated parties. Lorenz’s mouth had gone dry, his hands clammy and clenched at his side. 

“Don’t say such vile, disgusting things—”

“If you’re not queer, then why are you always trailing after him?”

“I have a duty as a noble to—”

“We’ve all heard endlessly about your noble duty. Didn’t think it was House Gloucester’s duty to suck cocks.” Lorenz had been so mortified, he couldn’t even say anything to defend himself. If he opened his mouth, he’d surely be sick on the floor. To imply such things about House Gloucester, to besmirch their good name, it was… 

Wallace had stepped towards him and clasped a hand on Lorenz’s shoulder, crushingly tight, in a mockery of a friendly gesture. “Look, Lorenz. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop hanging around the little queer. People talk, and he’s going to drag you down.” He had let go of Lorenz, his tight grip leaving red marks on Lorenz’s shoulder, and walked off, but Lorenz had barely noticed, so caught up in his internal turmoil the real world seemed fuzzy and false to him.

Alkund had approached him, thankful and tentative. “Sorry that you got dragged into that, Lorenz. Thanks for defending me.” He had reached out to touch Lorenz’s arm in a casually friendly gesture, and Lorenz flinched back violently. They had looked at each other for a second, shock and betrayal on Alkund’s face, before Lorenz stormed away.

Lorenz had always considered himself, first and foremost, a protector. Someone courageous. Someone always willing to do the right thing for others, even if it was hard. But protecting Alkund could ruin him. If people looked a little closer, dug deeper… He also had a responsibility to his house and his family, beyond his ideals. But wasn’t that an excuse? He had decided he would be better than his father, that he'd care about helping the people more than helping just his house. But what if people found out about him—then he’d be unable to help anyone, disowned instead of the Alliance leader. Wasn’t it better to not stand up to a little bullying now so that he could do more good in the future? No, once he started making allowances like that, he would lose all of his integrity, become used to compromising his ideals. He couldn’t risk the name of his house, and yet he couldn’t abandon his friend either. He had to mull it over, caught in indecision. Until he had decided what to do, he had avoided Alkund, not wanting to bias his decision before he logiced out what was for the best. If he decided he could still spend time with him, he would apologize and explain why he had been absent (with some notable exclusions) and Alkund would understand. 

Only, a week after the incident, when Lorenz had still been making up his mind, news came of the major rebellion in Faerghus and they were told the Academy was closing down for the year. Lorenz had been slightly, guiltily relieved that the decision had mostly been made for him—he and Alkund could be penpals, friendly but several degrees less close that they had been before, a perfect compromise. 

But when he had approached Alkund, his normally timid demeanor had been missing. When Lorenz had given him his personal address, he had laughed, a harsh and mocking sound nothing like his normal soft giggle, and said, “oh, so now that no one will know about it, you want to be my friend again?” and had refused to receive the paper Lorenz offered him. When Lorenz sent a letter to him a few months later, Alkund never responded, and Lorenz was forced to admit that the rumors had truly killed whatever connection they once had. 

Despondent, Lorenz buried the pain of losing his closest connection in schoolwork, preparing for his future political career as the leader of the Alliance. Two months after that, Claude had appeared as the new heir to House Riegen and took even that distraction away from Lorenz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Notes: [Wallace at Alkund/Lorenz at himself be like](https://youtu.be/yE07FbWmew8?t=39)
> 
> Sorry to any Ignatz/Lorenz fans reading this, I had to establish he had a type he wasn't attracted to, so now he doesn't like twinks/nerds in this fic, and yes, this will come up in passing again, though mostly as a joke.
> 
> My tumblr is [guiltybystanders](https://guiltybystanders.tumblr.com) and my twitter is [aguiltybystandr](https://twitter.com/aguiltybystandr).


	4. quia peccavi nimis (that i have sinned)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz goes to Hilda's birthday party. Considering the kinkmeme prompt this was based on and the tags on this fic, I'm sure nothing will go wrong for him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 10k words, we finally get to what the original prompt was about! And it almost doubles the length of the fic! I hope this lives up to the hype. 
> 
> Thanks once again to the witty and vivacious [vellev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellev). He helped me come up with some of the dares, so thank him that they're not all stupid. 
> 
> Warnings: even more palpable internalized homophobia, underage drinking. Things start to get hornier this chapter but it still doesn't earn its E rating until the next one.

Lorenz never feels comfortable out so late at night. Back home he has a strict bedtime of 10:00 PM, when he is to be in bed and ready to sleep, so it always feels sacrilegious to be leaving his room, the monastery already quiet and darkened, for a party that starts at that time. He hardly imagines his father could complain about him making connections to other important nobles (Margrave Edmund’s daughter! The only heir of the Ordeilias! The princess of Brigid, for the goddess’s sake!) even if it meant forgoing a little sleep. He sneaks down the stairs towards the greenhouse as quietly as he can—several months ago a nun heard them making a ruckus at a different feast and had complained to their professor, as technically no one is supposed to be in the greenhouse this late at night. 

The spot is beautiful though, with moonlight streaming through the glass walls to gently illuminate plants from all over Fodlan and beyond, bathing everything in a soft, silvery light. Lorenz is among the last to arrive (but to be late is fashionable, is it not?) as most of the other Golden Deer are already situated on pillows and a large blanket that’s spread across the stone floor. True to its name as a feast, heaps of food pilfered from the kitchen lay in platters in the middle of the blanket, all things that could be eaten at room temperature and didn’t need much preparation. Lorenz turns his nose up at eating something that had been sitting out so long, but no matter: almost all the food will be shoveled into Raphael’s maw anyways. Who would have thought that commoners needed so much food? It certainly explained some things about grain tariffs. At the edge of the blankets, several bottles of suspicious liquid glisten in the moonlight. 

“Lorenz! So nice of you to make it to my birthday party,” Hilda says. “I hope you didn’t go too out of your way to prepare for it.”

“Of course not, Hilda,” he says, taking out the little package he spent all of yesterday afternoon scouring the marketplace for. “Happy birthday. Here you go.”

“A present! You shouldn’t have!” She makes impatient grabbing hands towards him.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Claude says, voice sounding right behind him and making him jump. “Now she’s going to be insufferable if we don’t all get her something.”

Hilda pouts. Lorenz walks quickly over to her to give her the gift and to put some space between him and Claude. “Don’t listen to him, Lorenz, he’s just not as considerate as you are.” 

“This party is your gift! Do you know how hard it was to get the keys to the greenhouse and all the food from the kitchen?”

“Here you go,” Lorenz says, handing her the gift. “I hope you enjoy what I obtained for you because it is rather rare.”

Hilda gleefully rips open the packaging, pausing when she sees the tin. “Oh, a… tea? Uh, thank you, Lorenz.” 

“Why, it’s not just any tea, dear Hilda! The tea leaves have been expertly shaped by a master artisan, and when it’s properly brewed the leaves unfurl in the shape of a blooming flower, providing both a delicate tasting tea and a robust visual experience.” She looks at the tin more interestedly. “I thought of it because you, too, are like a tenderly blooming flower, in both your beauty and your grace. If you like, we could perhaps have this tea together…” 

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve been so busy lately, I’m not sure I have time for tea, as lovely as that sounds.” She lets out a delicate sigh. “Maybe when I get all of my chores done for the week, I’ll finally be free enough to sit down for a cup…”

Claude snorts and takes the seat next to her. “I know it’s your birthday, but you really never give it a rest, do you, Hilda?”

“I still say it’s completely unfair that they schedule you to do chores on your birthday week,” she grumbles.

Lorenz takes a few steps away to sit down further away from Claude, hoping no one notices. He doesn’t want to sit too close to Mercedes as well… He ends up between Ignatz and Leonie, perfectly situated to not have to look either Mercedes or Claude in the eye. 

“I hope she likes the portrait I gave her,” Ignatz is saying to Leonie. “It feels a little personal, and kind of cheap. Maybe I should have just bought her something.”

“Nonsense. A homemade gift will always mean more than a store-bought gift.” She reaches across Lorenz to give him a friendly punch on the arm, which makes Ignatz wince in real pain. Lorenz thinks privately Leonie probably prefers homemade gifts because they’re the only ones she can afford, but he’s learned that’s apparently impolite to voice aloud. 

Across the room, Marianne looks dejected. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to get you a gift. I am not very familiar with how birthday parties work.”

Hilda immediately wraps an arm around Mariane and pulls her into a sideways hug. “That’s okay, Marianne, you being here is a gift in and of itself.”

“Oh, but my party isn’t?” Claude gripes.

“Are you Marianne? Then no.”

Lorenz never knows how to behave at these kinds of gatherings. It’s part of why he finds Claude’s constant feasts so distasteful. He knows how to behave at a proper ball or at a black-tie dinner party. He learned young the exact social script of each situation a noble might find themselves in. He was taught how exactly to dress for every occasion; how long it was appropriate to wait before eating after the host takes their first bite; what you could infer about the social hierarchy of a room from who was sat where; what conversation topics were secretly code for something else entirely. His father had prepared him perfectly for his life in politics, and he could glide through any aspect of noble society flawlessly. People were always remarking to his father that he was the most polite young man at any social event he made an appearance at. Some people might find that kind of environment stifling, yes, but he found the complicated social order comforting. He always knew what exactly to do, what would be best to say. He’d only have to think back to his etiquette training and finish the script. As long as everyone played their proper roles there would be no trouble.

And so parties like this stumped him. There seemingly were no rules, at least none that he could gather. Half the participants were wearing their uniforms, the other half their sleep clothes. Raphael, a commoner, had eaten half the food before Hilda or Claude even looked at it. The princess of Brigid sits next to a mercenary-in-training from a village in his territory so small it’s usually left off maps, talking about _hunting_. When Lysithea snaps at Sylvain, she doesn’t couch any of her complaints in false pleasantries. It was like everything he had learned about interacting with people was thrown out the window, useless, and he didn’t know how to engage with any of them anymore. He sits there, as primly as he can manage while situated on a pillow, feeling like he’s not quite in his own skin. He’s hyperconscious of what his hands are doing.

He shakes himself. No matter! He is Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, after all, the most charming nobleman in the entire Alliance! He has been captivating people since he was a boy. He’s about to skillfully insert himself into Leonie and Petra’s conversation when Sylvain drops down beside him, forcing Ignatz to hurriedly scoot over lest he be crushed.

“That flower line was a nice touch,” Sylvain says, “but Hilda only used it to try to get you to do her work, while she put my hair clip in right away.” He holds out a cup of wine in the entirely wrong shape of glass. “So it looks like I’m still the master of winning over girls.”

Lorenz takes the drink mostly to have something to do with his hands. “Ah, she may wear your gift, but mine is a reason to meet up with her again, one on one. If you were cleverer, you’d see that you have to think long-term like that.”

Sylvain snorts. “Yeah, you’ll meet up again and she’ll make you clean her room or something.” 

Lorenz rolls the cup between his palms. He’s drunk wine before, of course. Part of being a noble is having a noble palette, regardless of how unpleasant he secretly found it. But he never drinks more than a glass at dinner, with ample food to soak up the alcohol. He doesn’t want to be uninhibited—his self-control is strong enough most of the time but he doesn’t want to know what would happen if he relaxed it even an inch. He had objected to Claude bringing alcohol to feasts at first, citing Lysithea’s youthful age, and getting told off by her for it. When Claude had brought it to the party anyways, Lysithia had taken a single sip before swearing “never again,” face screwed up in displeasure, and Claude used that as proof that it was fine to bring alcohol to these little get-togethers, even if other students were similarly underaged (though not as noticeably.) 

Lorenz definitely didn’t trust himself to drink right now, not when everything he ignored was seething around so close to the surface, but the idea of numbing his senses, of finally being able to relax, was sorely tempting. Still, public intoxication was completely unbecoming of a noble, and he was stronger than to give in to temptation. Only… He sniffed the glass, then craned his head to look at the bottles.

“Is this an 1153 Oche Zinfandel?” He asks sharply.

“Uh, yeah,” Claude says, like it’s not a big deal.

“This is one of the most expensive recent vintages. It’s incredibly rare.”

“Only the best for our Hilda!”

“How did you possibly get it?”

Claude just winks at him, infuriatingly. “I have my ways.”

“To waste a bottle of this—”

“It’s not a waste, it’s for my birthday,” Hilda cuts him off, pouting.

“Ah, of course not, I merely meant—”

“It’s already open, so you might as well appreciate it.”

Lorenz can’t really argue with that, so he admits defeat and takes a sip. He’s always preferred sweeter white wines to drier reds, but he makes a show of appreciating the high quality, full-bodied vintage. 

“So,” Hildas says, “it’s my birthday and I want to play some party games!”

“Uh, you do know you’re turning nineteen, not twelve, right?” Claude asks as Lysithea shoots him a glare. He supposes twelve wasn’t so far off for her. 

“Don’t be a spoilsport, it’ll be fun! And they’ll be drinking games, nothing kiddie about that.”

Claude shrugs. “It’s your birthday.”

Hilda scoots in closer towards the center on the blanket, waving her arms for them all the move in too. “First up, we’ll play Never Have I Ever.” 

Lorenz jolts unpleasantly seeing everyone else nod like they already know what that means. Luckily Marianne looks as lost as he feels. She’s unlikely to ask the rules though, so he still might have to reveal his ignorance.

“I am not knowing how this game is being played,” says Petra, and he’s saved. 

“Ooo, you have to play then. It’s a crucial part of Fodlan culture, and it’s simple!” Hilda says. 

“Everyone takes a turn saying something they’ve never done, and then everyone who _has_ done that thing takes a drink! Usually with alcohol, but we have juice, too.” Normally Lorenz would pour himself a glass of juice, but he can’t let this extraordinary vintage go to waste in the hands of people who can’t possibly appreciate it. If he starts to get drunk, then he’ll switch to the juice. “I’ll start,” Hilda said. “Never have I ever gone skinnydipping. Er, swimming naked,” she clarified at Petra’s confused noise. Around the circle, people drank, notably Petra, Claude, Sylvain, and, surprisingly, Ignatz and Mercedes. Hilda turned to Petra next to her. “You’re next!”

As the game progressed, it became abundantly clear how little Lorenz had done in his life compared to his peers. Everyone, save Marianne and perhaps Lysithea (who was, though she was loath to show it, four years younger than him), drank for at least twice as many of the prompts as him, some significantly more than that. Obviously, he had a finer upbringing than the rest of them, and much better decision-making skills, but it’s a little… disconcerting to see how many other benchmarks of life his peers have passed that he’s not even approached yet. When he does drink, he gulps down perhaps a little more than necessary to keep the level of his cup closer to what the others have—it wouldn’t do for the people to see the heir of Gloucester as inexperienced. 

He spends less time paying attention to who’s done what and more time thinking about a prompt that’s worthy of him. Something that will get others to drink but not reveal any… gaps that might exist in his lived experiences. He spends so much time thinking about it that he hardly notices when his turn approaches, only coming too when Sylvain prods his side.

“Never have I ever lost a game of chess.” Admittedly, he’s only played chess a scant handful of times. Still, he takes no small measure of satisfaction in watching Claude drink, despite his purported skill in strategy. 

With his turn passed, he has a chance to relax some. Ignatz, of all people, is surprisingly the most intoxicated, having drunk at more of the questions than anyone other than Mercedes, Sylvain, and Claude, all of whom are holding their liquor better than him. Hilda seems to be enjoying taking note of exactly who has done what to tease them with later. Sylvain keeps grinning at the girls flirtatiously as he drinks. Lorenz still feels a bit awkward about having done so little (which is ridiculous, he’s the heir of House Gloucester and has simply had a more refined upbringing than the rest of his house, which he already knew) but as he takes a few more drinks and watches the others make fools of themselves, he’s starting to relax. It’s actually almost… fun.

And then the bombshell that destroys everything. 

It’s Lysithea who sets it off. She blushes bashfully and says, “Never have I ever kissed a boy.” And next to and across from him, simultaneously, both Claude and Sylvain raise their glasses to their lips amidst the flurry of drinking girls. 

He can’t stop himself from blurting out “what?” though luckily his question is echoed by half the class. 

“Where I grew up, they don’t make nearly as big a stink about that as they do here,” Claude says with a nonchalant shrug, like somehow admitting to it wasn’t a big deal, like it didn’t even matter. And is he paranoid, or was Claude staring directly at him when he said it? His face twists into a scowl and he looks down at his hands.

“And where exactly is it that you grew up?” Hilda asks, voice wry.

He turns his smile to her and winks. “Why, Hilda, do you wanna know that for yourself? I never suspected.”

She huffs and turns to Sylvain. “And what about you?”

Sylvain laughs. “You think I don’t appreciate beauty in all its many forms?” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Claude says and people laugh along with them at that, but there’s nothing laughable about it to Lorenz. His best cover for his perversion is his flirtations with women. If someone like Sylvain, who dedicated even more of his time to courting than he, could have kissed a man—perhaps regularly kisses men by the way he worded his answer—who was to say that Lorenz isn’t having dalliances with men on the side as well? Sylvain's confession means the destruction of his first line of defense. 

The game continues, but Lorenz doesn’t pay it any attention, not listening well enough to know whether he’s to drink or not at each round. Everyone else is getting drunker around him—poor, pathetic Igntaz practically falling over where he sits—and Lorenz feels painfully sober. Or at least he thinks this isn’t how being drunk is supposed to feel like.

How could they have admitted it so openly? For everyone in the house to hear, to possibly spread even further? Didn’t they care? 

When Lorenz was younger, the daughter of a neighboring territory had been the pride of her parents and envy of every other noble, for her skills in both politics and her beautiful singing. Everyone had been eager to see what she could accomplish, with her whip-sharp mind and can-do attitude. She could do no wrong in the eyes of high society, until the day they caught her in the arms of another woman and then suddenly she was less than dirt, unable to go anywhere or do anything without hateful looks and pointed silences. She’d been disowned not long after, and her promising future had crumbled away to dismal obscurity. His own parents had rued how the girl had destroyed the rest of her life in that one moment, and watching his father’s shaking head and disgusted sneer, Lorenz had sworn to never follow in her footsteps

And yet now, the heir to Gautier and _the future leader of the Alliance_ were openly admitting that which would destroy Lorenz’s own life. Yes, how could Claude, heir to the Alliance throne, have transgressed in such a way? Transgressed and then mentioned it as casually as if it didn’t matter at all?

Who had they kissed? There were certainly many monks that Lorenz had seen Sylvain chatting with in a way he had assumed was perfectly innocent. Or was it that brat Lindhardt? There had always been rumors about him, and he had made it abundantly clear that he was disgustingly blasé about the prosperity of his house, complaining about the burden of it and reveling in the negative gossip about him. Lorenz had always found him unappealing, as scrawny and lazy as he was. What was even the point of kissing a man that looked as feminine as him? 

And what about Claude? What kind of boy had caught his eye? Someone at the Monastery, someone Lorenz knew? Could he have been looking upon the face of some man who kissed Claude for months without knowing it? Or had Claude kissed someone back home, wherever that was? Was there some boy waiting for him somewhere, separated now by Claude’s new role and home? If the place he came from was so different, perhaps they had been open about it, kissing in the street as courting couples sometimes did? Had Claude done anything more than just kissing with this boy? Or perhaps there was not just one boy. Perhaps there were many men whose lips Claude had pressed his own too. 

Lorenz wants to drink, but hasn’t been listening well enough to know what damning act that would tell everyone he has experience with.

Leonie jabs him in the side with her elbow, jolting him back to the real world and saving him from his torturous thoughts. “What?”

“It’s your turn,” she hisses at him.

“Oh! Um…” He had never thought of a second prompt, and preoccupied as he was, and there’s an awkward pause. 

Hilda sighs. “It’s ok, this was getting boring anyway.” Then a maniacal grin grows on her face. “Let’s switch to a new game!”

“I don’t like the look of that expression,” Lysithea says, showing off her uncommon intelligence once again. 

“Oh hush, you. It’ll be fun! Come on, we’re going to play Truth or Dare.” There’s a mixture of groans and cheers to that.

If Never Have I Ever had proved disastrous for Lorenz, then Truth or Dare would be beyond the pale. “I don’t think that’s a wise idea, Hilda,” he says. Lysithea nods emphatically. 

Hilda rolls her eyes. “Of course it’s not _wise_ , dummy, it’s not meant to be! It’s supposed to be fun!” He thinks about objecting further, but she turns her big, pleading eyes on him and cajoles, “It _is_ birthday, after all. I only get to turn nineteen once!”

How could he say no to the beloved little sister of Commander Goneril? Perhaps she would write of him again in her letter back home… His father would be very pleased to hear that. “I suppose I could, for you,” he tells her, but can’t help feeling like he’s falling into a trap. 

She claps her hands together. “Great! That means you can start! Truth or dare?”

“I, er—” What should he choose? Truth is generally safer, except for the one thing he can’t admit. Perhaps it’s his paranoia, but he finds himself blurting, “dare.”

“Unexpectedly bold of you,” Hilda says, impressed. “Hmmm, what should I make you do? Something easier for the start of the game… Oh! I know! Let me put makeup on you!” 

His face pulls into a grimace. “That’s not very dignified.”

She rolls her eyes again. “It’s Truth or Dare, it’s not meant to be dignified. Plus, if you don’t do it, you have to do the forfeit.”

“There’s a forfeit?” Leonie asks, concerned.

“Yeah! Every time you refuse to do or answer something, you have to take off a piece of clothing!” There’s an outburst of protests, but she simply ignores them. “Also, you can’t do the same thing three times in a row. Every three truths in a row you have to do a dare, and every three dares you have to do a truth.”

“I wasn’t aware there were so many rules to Truth or Dare,” Mercedes says. 

“There are if you want to make it fun,” Hilda says. “Now Lorenz, do you want to wear a little makeup or take something off?”

While he could simply take off one of his shoes, he’ll probably want to save those for the more out-there dares, as while this one is a bit embarrassing it’s not actually that bad. “Very well. I acquiesce.”

She squeals happily as she grabs a bulging bag from beside her and wiggles over to sit in front of him.

“Why did you have that here?” Lysithea asks.

“Because I knew we were gonna play Truth or Dare, duh?” She grabs Lorenz’s face and tilts it roughly in her hands. “You go ahead and ask the next person now, because I want to do this right. Don’t worry, I’ll make you look beautiful.” Sylvain snickers at him on his right.

“Er…” Who is the safest person to ask? “Raphael, Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Raphael says without hesitation.

“Very well. I, uh, dare you to…” He wracks his brain for something suitable, with no experience with this game himself to draw on, “go touch the corpse flower.” He wasn’t sure why the monastery thought they should have a giant flower that smells of rotten flesh as their centerpiece, but at least it has a use now.

“Ugh, lame,” Hilda says as she pulls out little palettes and holds them up to his face to compare color, “you could have at least made him lick it.” At that, for some inscrutable reason, Raphael licks the flower anyway, merely because it occurs to him that he can. And so, the game goes into full swing.

It seems the first dares really were tame compared to the rest. Mercedes gives Sylvain a hickey, to his delight. Leonie stuffs dozens of truly filthy questions in the advice box for the professors to answer tomorrow. Ignatz breaks out his paints to write crude words of Lysithea’s face. Claude chugs almost a quarter of a bottle of wine in under a minute. Petra does a handstand for an entire round. Hilda, still fussing over his face—endlessly prodding his eyes with implement after implement and slathering creams on his cheeks and lips, a much more involved and painful process than his simple daily eyeliner routine—admits she has had a secret rendezvous with a boy in the monastery's chapel. As soon as Lorenz is free from Hilda’s grasp, he drains his glass. He’s much too sober for this. 

As the game continues and the stakes escalate, more and more dares—and the occasional truth—are met with the removal of clothing. Lorenz himself takes off his boots for refusing to break onto the third floor where Archbishop lives, his socks for refusing to Hilda cut his hair (“trust me, I’d make it look _so_ much better”), and his jacket for refusing to lick Claude’s boots back when he was still wearing them—to imagine that he, the noble heir to House Gloucester, who was almost the next leader of the Alliance himself, would lower himself to lick the boot of that interloper!

“Take your shirt off,” Sylvain dares Petra, and Lorenz squawks with offense. 

“You can’t ask the Princess of Brigid to just strip down!” 

“Actually, the problem is that the dare and the forfeit are the exact same thing, and that’s no fun,” Hilda says. 

Petra is already in the process of shrugging her blouse over her head with absolutely no shame. “The people of Fodlan are having much modesty over their clothing,” she says nonchalantly. “In Brigid, we are not having such concern over showing our bodies.” 

Claude laughs loudly at that, nodding along in agreement that Fodlan is too modest (perhaps because he himself seems to have no shame.) Lorenz has been doing everything in his power to avoid looking at him all evening, but especially now. He’s mostly nude at this point, having done every dare no matter how ridiculous but refusing to answer even the most innocuous questions. He’s down to just his boxers and nothing else, and has made it abundantly clear he’d rather drop those too than to answer questions about his place of origin. Almost naked; skin glistening under the moonlight; head thrown back in laughter, exposing the long line of his bare throat; in front of a backdrop of rare flowers and lush vegetation the exact same shade of green as his eyes; Lorenz feeling slightly tipsy himself… yes, it’s better if he ignores Claude entirely. 

Unfortunately, that’s made hard by the actions of other people. Marianne has been very quiet and demure all game—people have given her easy questions and easy dares throughout the night so as to not scare her off. This makes it all the more shocking when she responds to Ignatz’s “dare” with “I dare you to kiss whoever the bottle lands on,” and hands him the empty bottle of Oche Zinfandelto spin. 

The crowd immediately erupts into shocked hollering, probably loud enough to wake students in the nearby dorms. Ignatz, red-faced, scoots into the center of the circle and gives the bottle a spin. It lands on Claude, because of course it does, and Lorenz hates himself. There’s more excited whooping and Ignatz, his face burning like a Morfis beet, comes to kneel in front of Claude, who smiles at him. 

“Don’t worry,” he teases Ignatz, “I’ll be gentle.” And then his hands are combing through Ignatz’s hair and his lips are on Ignatz’s lips, hungry and self-assured and skilled. 

Lorenz is struck by many things, watching this. He’s struck by the fact for the first time in his life, he’s seeing two men kissing, or being intimate with each other in any way. He’s struck by the fact that this is happening in front of a crowd of some of the most politically important young nobles on the continent, and yet they’re just cheering. He’s struck that because of the reason it's happening no one will ever hold it against them, that this is the one scenario where it’s acceptable to kiss another man because no matter what happens, it’s all just a joke. He’s struck by the fact that, all things considered, it looks just the same as the kisses between men and women he’s seen—just like the stableboy and the scullery maid, Claude and Ignatz are just two people pressing their lips together, no matter how alien it should seem to him. 

And mostly what strikes him, despite being the least important in the long run, is the exact way Claude looks when he’s kissing someone. Lorenz finds Ignatz about as visually appealing as Alkund had been to him, which is to say not at all, but that doesn’t matter when he’s caught on the movement of Claude’s full lips, the slight flash of a moving tongue, the soft stroke of Claude’s thumb on Ignatz’s cheek, the slight tugging of his hand buried in Ignatz’s hair. 

The kiss only lasts around ten seconds, but it’s like Lorenz’s world has tilted and changed in that time. His hands are clenched into fists and he’s pushing it down, he’s holding it back, but even with all his best efforts to repress it he can feel the ache of want deep inside his core. Even not attracted to Ignatz, he’s started to go slightly hard, and he discreetly tucks himself away and squeezes his legs together to hide it. He’s revolted with himself. The slightest bit on temptation and he gives in to the worst parts of himself like the sex-crazed pervert he’s afraid he is deep inside. He should be better than this. He can’t succumb, or he and his house will fall to ruin for the sake of his disgusting, base lust. 

Ignatz pulls back and wipes his mouth, looking completely dazed. He had seemingly sobered up a little from Never Have I Ever before the kiss, but he’s back to looking unsteady and drunk. He teeters back to his spot in between Sylvain and Raphael. 

“It’s your turn to ask someone truth or dare,” Mercedes reminds him. 

Ignatz nods, but it takes him a few seconds to process what exactly she said. “Oh! Umm…” He gazed around, still blinking slowly. “Lorenz, truth or dare?” 

Lorenz wanted to shrink back away from the gaze everyone turns upon him. Maybe he is a little drunk. He feels raw and exposed. He has no idea what his facial expression is like right now, what his hands are doing, if he’s sweating too much. Someone could notice his budding erection if it turns out he’s not hidden it well enough. He could be telegraphing anything to the world and he’d have no idea, as separate from his body as he feels right now. He feels like they are all looking at him and his chest is cracked open so they can see past his ribs, deep inside him to where he keeps the ugly little wrong parts of himself no one should ever be allowed to know about. And normally he’d choose dare, but after that little show of how dangerous dares could be, he finds himself saying, “truth.” 

And Ignatz, sweet little romantic Ignatz, with his unappealing lips still wet and red from Claude’s kiss, asks, “Who do you like?” 

It’s what he’s been hoping to avoid all night. He barely hears Lysithea telling Ignatz off for “asking such a juvenile question” over the rushing of blood in his ears. He lets out a laugh, but it sounds hollow and fake even to him, lacking his normal charm and natural bravado. “How could I possibly choose one lady over another? Especially with my search for the perfect wife inconclusive.” 

“Yeah… I don’t buy that,” says Hilda, leaning forwards to get a closer view of his face. As she leans in, he can see Claude watching him over her shoulder, his expression unreadable. “The way you said that was _totally_ suspicious. Come on, who is it?” 

“I’m being entirely honest,” he lies. “How could I possibly choose one blossom from such a bountiful garden?” 

She huffs. “If you’re not going to answer it properly, at least take something off.” 

In any other scenario, he’d argue for his honor, that he couldn’t be expected to do the forfeit after he already answered the question. It’s a testament to how shaken he is that he barely hesitates to comply. “Very well, though I am telling the truth.” Better to take another layer off than to have them pry deeper. 

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, feeling even more exposed as he pulls it off. Only his undershirt and pants are left now, and he feels hopelessly bare. Others are far more undressed than him (Raphael only had to turn down a single dare to skip lunch the next day before he was more naked than Lorenz now, having forgotten he could take off his shoes) but it’s still more skin than he’s ever shown publicly outside of changing rooms in his life. The fact he’s still slightly aroused makes it feel all the more dangerous. Even in his tipsy state, he can feel the cool air of the night on his bare shoulders and collarbone. He has no idea how Claude, Petra, Raphael, and Leonie are faring, mostly stripped down as they are. He shivers. 

He dares Lysithea to eat dirt (not very noble of him, but nothing about this game is) before checking out entirely, caught up on remembering the kiss, the cheers that accompanied it. They way they had moved together. The way Claude had been both soft, with his hand on Ignatz’s face, and demanding, pulling at his hair and licking into his mouth. How everyone had watched it and not pulled away in disgust after. But no. The only reason it was allowed was because it was fake. They were in a liminal space now, where things that should never be allowed were encouraged, as long they were at the behest of another person. That’s what dares were in the end—a test of courage, proof that you would do something disgusting and embarrassing just to prove you were strong enough to handle it. Really, kissing another man was on the same level as flashing Seteth—both dangerous, unpleasant tasks meant to make a fool of oneself and prove one’s mettle. 

He thinks Mercedes might be watching him from across the circle, but he doesn’t want to deal with it, so he avoids looking in her direction at all. 

“Ok, Claude,” Hilda says, “one more dare before you have to choose truth again and will hopefully decide to spare us an eyeful.” 

Claude laughs. “That depends entirely on what you’re asking. You don’t want to push me on this. Besides, that’s not for a whole nother round. For now, I pick dare.” 

“I knew you would,” she sighs. “Okay then. I dare you to kiss Lorenz.” 

If Lorenz had felt frozen before, it was nothing compared to the ice in his veins now. He feels simultaneously outside of his body and aware of every last nerve stinging. He can’t move. He can barely think. 

Claude laughs. “It looks like I’m popular tonight. Maybe I’ll get to kiss everyone before the night is through.” He scooches towards Lorenz, and though it’s impossible to make dragging himself across the blanket look good, Lorenz can’t help but feel his heartbeat pick up as Claude approaches him with, oh goddess help him, the intent to kiss. “Alright, pucker up!” 

“No!” he blurts out. “I don’t want to be pulled into this!” 

“Come on,” Claude says with a pout. He’s close now, too close, his green eyes dominating Lorenz’s vision, his mostly nude body less than an arm’s length away, near enough that Lorenz could reach out and touch and people might not even find it weird. “If you won’t kiss me, I’ll have to forfeit, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want all these ladies to have to see me take my boxers off.” He pauses, tilts his head, gives a cocky little grin. “Unless you want a look yourself?” 

Lorenz splutters. “Be that as it may, I refuse to do anything so _repulsive_.” 

“Come on, Ignatz did it and he was fine,” Claude cajoles. Lorenz looks away, but nowhere feels safe to look, not with everyone staring at them. “I’m a good kisser, so I bet he’d even tell you he liked it.” 

“Ignatz is a commoner, so I suppose he had more leniency to debase himself in such a way. I am a noble, and I can not lower myself to that level.” There are groans from around the room, but he knows he’s not wrong. Commoners don’t have to worry about the safety of the region, the inheritance of crests, what would be the most politically advantageous match—they can give in to any sordid urge they feel with little to no consequences. It is different for a noble. It is different for him. 

“You’re making much too big a deal over this,” Lysithea says. “It’s just Truth or Dare.” Is it more suspicious of him to refuse than to go along? Surely not, with his famous appreciation of noble ladies. If Ignatz had been any more sober, he’d probably have put up a stink too. 

Claude rolls his eyes. “Look, no one is going to judge you for this. Now, do you want me to drop trow, or are you gonna give me a little smooch?” 

And maybe he’s weak, but it’s true that this is just a game, that no one will recall it in the morning, that this might be his one chance to taste what he knows he’ll never be able to indulge in again. So he gives in. 

“Very well,” he says as primly as he can manage. He purses his lips, still tacky from the lipstick Hilda applied earlier, avoids looking Claude directly in the eyes. He’s skilled at pretending to be unaffected. “As I can see you’re going to keep pushing the issue, I acquiesce.” 

“Great!” Claude says, and abruptly swings one of his legs over Lorenz’s own. Lorenz yelps. 

“What are you doing?” he demands. Claude is still kneeling, but he’s boxed Lorenz in, effectively straddling him. If he were to sit down he would… no, that doesn’t bear thinking about. And now Claude also has a height advantage, looking down on Lorenz, who is still only sitting. Lorenz will have to crane his neck to reach those lips… Lorenz attempts to look away, but that only gives him an up-close-and-personal view of Claude’s bare chest, the dusting of dark hair, brown nipples hard in the late-night chill. 

“I’m getting into position to kiss?” Claude answers in a tone that makes it clear he thinks _Lorenz_ is somehow the ridiculous one of the two. 

"You didn’t do this with Ignatz.” 

"I think you'll find Ignatz was the one who kissed me.” Claude is still smiling and he’s backlit by the moonlight and that itself is almost more than Lorenz can take. “No offense to the guy, but I like to do things properly.” 

It’s a testament to Lorenz’s frazzled mental state that he’s startled by the whooping that accompanies Claude’s quip. He had forgotten there was an audience to this. Once again he freezes up, any part of him that had relaxed now on high alert. Anyone could look through the glass doors of the greenhouse, drawn in by the noise, and see this. Claude must notice him stiffening and starting to glance around, as he grabs Lorenz’s face, gently but with unsurprising strength, lifting his chin and redirecting his gaze to Claude’s face, his eyes, his mouth. “Just focus on me. It’ll be okay.” Lorenz is sure if he’d had the time he’d have said something witty but he doesn’t so he can’t because before Lorenz can mentally prepare for it, Claude is kissing him. 

Claude is kissing him. And. 

_Oh._

Claude starts off softer, pressing their lips together, sliding them gently across each other. Unbearably, heartachingly sweet, but tame. Lorenz struggles not to lean into it, but he can control himself. It’s manageable. Claude has one hand holding his face, thumb stroking his cheek, one hand buried in his hair keeping him steady, just like he did with Ignatz. Lorenz’s own hands are balled up at his side, unresponsive. And then Claude, as mischievous as ever, nips his lip, then licks his way into Lorenz’s mouth at his instinctual gasp of surprise at the sharp sensation, deepening the kiss. His hand tugs Lorenz’s hair, his chest presses so close that Lorenz can feel the warmth radiating off of it. Claude’s movements get a little rougher, an unspoken challenge, and Lorenz can’t help but to surge forwards, press deeper into Claude’s mouth himself, bringing his shaking hands up to touch, one on Claude’s face and another on one of his broad shoulders. 

The kiss is demanding and warm and wet and perfect. The angle is a little awkward from how Claude is above him and his fight or flight instinct is screaming at him that he’s dying. And yet it’s almost enough to make Lorenz cry, knowing he’ll never get to feel it again. It’s more than he ever could have imagined. He’s kissed before: short, perfunctory things with noblewomen who’ve wanted to get their hooks into the heir of Gloucester—each kiss used as a reason why he couldn’t possibly marry her, no, not when she’s been so forward. They always left him unsatisfied and disgusted with himself. This makes him feel disgusted with himself because of just how good it feels, when it should be no different from those other kisses. It should be no different. And yet it’s a world apart. 

He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, cock aching in his tight pants, and he desperately clasps his legs together and hoping no one notices. If Claude were to lower himself just a little further he’d surely feel it for himself, and the thought sends another surge of both shame and arousal straight to his gut as palpable as a suckerpunch. Disgrace and desire have always been at war within him, forever inextricably linked, and now they are both brought right to the surface, battling each other just underneath his topmost layers of skin. Perhaps everyone watching can see the fight within him played out so publically, like a match at an illegal brawling ring. He can barely suppress a moan as Claude tugs at his lip with his teeth again. He can’t suppress his hands from scrabbling to pull Claude closer, keep him there. He can only hope no one notices just how desperate his movements are. 

It’s Claude who finally draws back (leaving Lorenz to pray no one sees the way Lorenz’s lips chase after him), his lips smeared purple from Lorenz’s lips, stained with the lipstick Hilda had applied to Lorenz at the start of the game. It’s Claude who gently strokes his thumb over Lorenz’s bottom lip, tenderly wiping off the remains of the makeup, stroking a few extra times for good measure. It’s Claude who smiles at him, smug and pitying and condescending, and ruins everything when he says, “Well that wasn’t so bad, was it?” is his most knowing voice. 

The knowledge is like being struck by Blizzard. Claude _knows_. Claude knows about him, about his secret. Claude knows everything that he’s sacrificed so much to keep locked away. Claude knows how he feels about him personally. And from the patronizing twist to his lips, Claude has known for a long time. 

And Lorenz remembers the sauna, how Claude stripped down to chase him off there. How in the weeks since then, whenever he wanted to be left alone Claude would start stretching, or sucking on the tip of his pen, or getting all the way down on his knees to tie his shoes then looking up at Lorenz innocently. Claude knows about him, and he’s been laughing about it. Claude knows about it, and he’s been using it to manipulate him. 

Claude knows about it, and he pushed Lorenz into kissing him in front of everyone Lorenz is close to, where everyone could see what Claude somehow saw, where everyone could see that Lorenz is some dirty and pathetic thing. 

And here Claude is, perched above him, lipstick-smeared and smiling at Lorenz like he did him some kind of favor. Lorenz’s whole body is shaking—from arousal and shame and fear and rage. He’s still the most turned on that he’s ever been, and the angriest, and the most betrayed. It’s like what he felt that first time with the stableboy, when he first figured everything out, but infinitely more intense. Something must show on his face, because Claude’s smile drops and he starts looking concerned. 

“Lorenz?” he asks, his hand reaching towards him, “you alri—” 

“Don’t touch me!” Lorenz snaps, slapping the hand away, breathing heavy. Claude draws back immediately, giving him space in a few split seconds. He’s aware, distantly, that people must have been reacting to the kiss before only because of the heavy silence that grows now. Or maybe he just can’t hear them past the blood rushing in his ears. He must control himself. He must control himself, or else people will become suspicious. But it’s so hard to focus on anything other than his anger, the sting of treachery—he had thought, well… if he was being honest with himself, he had been starting to think that perhaps Claude wasn’t so bad after all, with his foresight and his ideals and his loyalty. Despite all his vocal protests against him, it… hurt to know that Claude was everything that he had accused him of being. He wants to slap Claude like a young maiden humiliated. He wants to cry. His cock is still aching, even his terror and humiliation not enough to fully kill his arousal lingering from that horrible, perfect kiss. 

He clears his throat. Everyone is watching him. He clears it again. “I merely didn’t want to…” to what? To not have Claude touch him anymore? To no longer feel his mockery? “To mess up Hilda’s makeup any further.” An awkward pause as people give him disbelieving looks. “It is her birthday, after all, and she put a lot of work into it.” 

“I don’t think—” Hilda starts to say, but Claude cuts her off. 

“That was rather rude of me. I’m sorry.” He’s trying to give Lorenz some sort of significant look, like he’ll be forgiven just like that. Lorenz refuses to meet his gaze. When he turns his head, though, he sees Mercedes staring at him thoughtfully, like she’s put some pieces of a puzzle together, and his spine freezes again. 

Leonie looks like she’s about to say something when the door to the greenhouse slams open. Seteth is standing there, breathing heavy, looking incensed. 

“Just what are you… Flayn’s class… And you’re all… Is that alcohol?” 

Hilda yells, “Oh my goddess, is Flayn still skinny dipping in the fishing pond?” Seteth whips around and Hilda uses his distraction to bolt, tugging a dazed Marianne along after. Raphael hoists up a still drunken Ignatz and chases along after. Petra snags her shirt as she runs with the grace of a hunter. Sylvain hightails it out of there with the practice of someone used to disappointing authority figures, and Leonie like someone new to the experience and desperate to escape it. Lyisthea tries to use her small stature to hide in one of the flower beds, behind some particularly tall bushes. Lorenz is running himself, hoping that no one notices his still apparent erection as he dashes to his room, just like running from the tack room all those years ago. Only Mercedes and Claude stay behind, presumably to smooth Seteth over. He can feel Claude’s gaze burning into his back as he runs, but he ignores him, focusing only on reaching the safety of privacy so he can allow himself to break down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Notes: [Claude to Lorenz and Ignatz be like](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix5z1bRz4Sc)
> 
> Things will all come to a head next chapter! We're at the home stretch.
> 
> Also, sorry, to Ignatz and Lindhardt. You're not ugly, Lorenz in this fic just doesn't have enough taste to appreciate you.


	5. mea maxima culpa (through my most grievous faults)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz breaks down, gives in, and deals with the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it lads! This is the last chapter of this fucking Lorenz fic. I did end up coming to like him a little more after writing it, so mission accomplished. I also turned my beta [vellev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellev) into a Lorenz-fucker and he's been infected with Lorenz-Horny Disease ever since he read this, more than I am at this point. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the conclusion of this wild ride.
> 
> Warning for some vomiting in this chapter, though it's not super graphic.

Shut back in his room, he’s free to break down like all those years ago. He could cry. He could destroy things, smash his teapots or tear up his poetry. But he merely sits on his bed, feeling so many things he can’t process them all at once, becoming numb in the process. This night doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel possible that once again everything has changed, has started crumbling away, that when tomorrow comes everything that came to pass tonight will actually matter. Maybe some calamity will happen, sending him home from Garreg Mach before he must face the dawn and Claude. He can’t imagine living in a world where Claude knows about him… but apparently he has been for at least a few weeks, if not longer. He can’t imagine living in a world where he knows that Claude knows, and where Claude knows that he knows too. To say nothing of who else figured it out… Probably Mercedes, with that look she gave him. Hilda was a lot more perceptive than she let on. Sylvain paid attention to that sort of thing, and apparently had experience with men himself. And who knew what other dark horses might have figured it out? No, he couldn’t even imagine living in a world like that, where the number of people who knew about him went from zero to possibly nine, exponentially more if there was gossip, in the course of an hour. Tonight could not have happened.

He looks at himself in the mirror. He’s unforgivably disheveled. The mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow Hilda had applied—bold over his usual subtle accents— had held up surprisingly well, only smudging in a few places, but most of the lipstick was gone, having rubbed off on Claude’s lips, under his fingers. His now-bare lips are bitten red from kissing, though the color is fading fast. His hair is ruffled and messy from where Claude had pulled on it, sticking up in ridiculous cowlicks. All this paired with his miserable expression, wearing just his rumpled, thin tank top undershirt and his tight pants, still strained, he looks like a mess. A pathetic mess. He looks pathetic. He flops backward onto his bed with a groan.

Had Claude actually kissed a boy before? Or was that just another ploy to get him to lower his guard? He certainly seemed unfazed at kissing Ignatz, but if this night had established anything it was that Claude would go to previously unforeseen depths for his little schemes. He realizes, distantly, that he’s absently rubbing his cock through the silken material of his pants. He knows he should stop, that this is the closest he’s ever come to crossing a line he can’t come back from, pleasuring himself at the thought of another man, but he can’t bring himself to care. Everything is already ruined. What’s one thing more?

He unbuttons his pants and fishes himself free from the confines of fabric. He begins stroking himself slowly. It’s been so long since he’s last done this, touched himself instead of willing his erection away or taking a cold shower. Normally he’ll only indulge if he’s aroused by something 100% not related to another man, and that’s happened very rarely. Instead, now, he imagines Claude. 

Claude at their very first meeting, smiling as he says, “I’m the new heir to Houze Riegen,” not even realizing what he’s taken from Lorenz. 

Claude, weeding the monastery, on his knees, looking up at Lorenz with his eyes the same color as the grass, a stripe of dirt on his cheek—utterly unbecoming of a leader. 

Claude, carefully and thoroughly licking his boots like he’d dared Lorenz to do during Truth or Dare, their normal roles reversed with Lorenz on his rightful throne and Claude playing the devoted follower, fulfilling his every whim. 

Claude, devoted to him.

Claude in the sauna changing room, mostly naked, skin glistening from sweat. Claude striping down to wait for him alone in that changing room, but this time not to scare Lorenz away, but to keep him there. This time, not letting Lorenz turn away, forcing him to look, to see. Claude watching Lorenz change and following him inside instead of leaving him there alone. Claude in the sauna, empty but for them, touching himself in front of Lorenz, for Lorenz alone to see, showing him what he’d done to other boys before, what he could do to Lorenz if only he would submit to him. Claude, sweaty and wanting, begging for a chance to open Lorenz up and fuck him. Lorenz, wanting to resist and yet knowing he couldn’t, giving in to his baser urges and spreading his legs for him. Claude fucking him there in the sauna, so hard he couldn’t even remember to be ashamed about it, sweaty, slick bodies coming together in the oppressive heat.

Or Claude this very night, in nothing but his thin boxers, hair shining in the moonlight, skin covered in gooseflesh from the cold and yet so, so warm on Lorenz’s own skin—Claude just as he had been, kissing him.

Lorenz picks up the speed of his strokes slightly, no longer just idly considering possibilities. If they had been alone in the greenhouse tonight, Claude would have really straddled him instead of kneeling over him. He would have sunk down and felt Lorenz’s cock pressed to his ass. Lorenz would have held him there, forced him to feel it, to feel exactly what he’d done to him, but Claude would have liked that. Claude likes nothing more than getting a rise from Lorenz, and this would have been no different. He’d probably have made a joke about it, getting “a rise” out of him, and Lorenz would have had to shut him up, claim those lips again and again so they couldn’t say anything else.

Lorenz’s hand picks up speed further as he imagines them, his thumb rubbing the head of his cock the same way Claude had run his thumb over Lorenz’s bottom lip. When Lorenz would have tired of kissing—if that were even possible—he’d have trailed his mouth to Claude’s neck, bitten him there, sucked and kissed and left him marked him as Lorenz’s, made him take responsibility for what he’d done. He’d have played with Claude’s nipples, already hard and sensitive from the cold, first with his hands, then with his mouth. Claude, normally so mouthy and disrespectful, rendered mute, lost in pleasure from Lorenz’s ministrations, his mouth lolling open. Lorenz would have stuck his fingers in that mouth, and Claude would have sucked on them eagerly. 

Lorenz groans, hand squeezing around his prick as he writhes around in his bed, alone. And Claude would have sucked his cock, hungrily, like he couldn’t get enough of it. Or! Or he’d have fingered Claude open and fucked him, made Claude ride him, have gotten him so lost in pleasure from bouncing on Lorenz’s cock that his smart mouth would have been unable to get another word in. Maybe both? Yes, Claude would have sucked his cock _and_ Lorenz would have fucked him. Either way, he’d be there, unable to use any of his poisonous words, directly dealing with the outcome of what he’d done to Lorenz. 

Lorenz would have made him pay as Claude lay there and took it, moaning in pleasure, loving every second of it. Lorenz finishes with a gasp, releasing as he imagines Claude’s face looking down on him, hazy with pleasure and genuine affection in the aftermath of their love-making… 

It hits Lorenz what he’s done like an enemy mage’s Ragnarok. He’s pleasured himself to thoughts of a man—to thoughts of fucking a man and of being fucked. To Claude, specifically: he who encroached on Lorenz’s future; his one-future-day ruler; his almost-compatriot; the man who had betrayed him not even an hour before. He has transgressed, both personally and morally. 

His stomach turns as he realizes just what he’s indulged in, and he rushes towards his largest teapot, hacking up the meager amount of alcohol and food he’d consumed throughout the night, stomach acid burning his throat. Now that he’s compromised his morals, loosened his self-control, once he’ll be bound to trip up again. That was the problem with stuff like this—as soon as you’ve indulged, no matter how base and degrading the act, you’ll want to do it again, having tasted the pleasure. It was just like not defending Alkund as the easy way out—once you know how painless it is to make the wrong decision, you’ll never want to make the right one again. 

Now that he’s tasted Claude’s lips, now that he’s indulged in his most wretched, unscrupulous fantasies, now that he’s pleasured himself to the thought of a man (of Claude), how is he supposed to lock away all the parts of himself that cannot be allowed to see the light of day? How can ever stop himself now that he knows what he’s denying himself, no matter how imperative it is that he does it? How can he forget such pleasure before it ruins him? How can he go back?

Crouching on the floor, still heaving up into a teapot, he searches for something to wipe his hand free of his seed, eventually finding a dirty handkerchief. His face burns at the thought of having to wash it. There are tears leaking from his eyes, more from the exertion of vomiting than from emotion, and miserable as he is, he does nothing to stem their tide. He stays there, curled on the ground, for a few minutes before hauling himself up. None of this behavior has been appropriate for a Gloucester, and this overblown sentimentality was part of that. He would simply have to develop even better self-control! Who was he to give in to despair? No, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester would rise above this, so gracefully that he would look back on this night and laugh that he ever thought it would be a problem.

Still, it’s easier to think positive platitudes than to make those feelings a reality. He gets up from the floor and sits in front of his mirror again. If he thought he looked bad before, it’s nothing on what he looks like now: eye makeup streaming down his face in purple and black tear tracks; lips shining with spit and vomit; face blotchy red; his hair a rat’s nest; his clothes rumpled and stained. It’s probably the most pathetic and disheveled he’s ever looked in his life. 

The first step to getting back in control is looking like he’s in control. All that matters is that he looks fine from the outside—he can deal with any inner turmoil later, once he’s not making a fool of himself in front of others. This was the way of nobility. He knew it well. He cleans his room first: stripping the bed and putting on new sheets; hiding all evidence of his… indulgence; thoroughly washing the teapot of his vomit; scrubbing the floors for good measure. He’s never done such menial, degrading work in his life, always having had servants to do it for him, but there’s something cathartic about cleaning up this mess himself, knowing that no one else will ever know about it this way, working until the soft skin of this hands are torn and his knees are bruised. Next up, he makes himself look presentable. He washes his face, scrubbing off the makeup, cleaning off the spit and sweat. He brushes his hair and his teeth. He changes from the remains of his uniform into his silken sleeping clothes. He reorients himself until he looks just like the Lorenz Helman Gloucester of any other night. And if it takes him many more hours to sleep than normal, the first hints of sunrise already poking over the horizon, then well, he’ll just cover his eye bags with a little power in the morning.

* * *

Mercedes approaches as soon as he leaves his room the next morning. He’s made sure that he’s perfectly presentable, for an extra boost of confidence—no one looking at him would imagine he’d done any of what he’d done last night, not Truth or Dare or anything that came from it, a perfectly respectable young noble. He’d been feeling confident that he could get through the day without any foibles, which is why it’s so concerning to not only see her so early but obviously having searched him out purposefully. Still, it would be beyond the pale to not great her now that she’s made her presence so known.

“Ah, Mercedes,” he says. “Good morning to you.” He’s hoping she’ll leave it at that, but he’s not so lucky.

“Good morning, Lorenz. Do you think we could talk a bit?”

“I, uh, have to—”

“It won’t be long, and you don’t have to say anything back if you don’t want to. And we never need to acknowledge it again, if you don’t want to.” 

That sounds like dangerous territory. “I don’t… I…”

“If you really don’t want to talk, I won’t force you. Just know that you can talk to me at any time, about anything at all. And that I’m sorry—it’s true, I may not like you very much, but I may have said some cruel things to you in the past without realizing it, and I apologize for that.” He feels the blood starting to drain from his face, but she leaves it at that, starting to walk towards the dining hall. “Now how about we go get some breakfast? You didn’t drink too much last night, it seems, but I bet some of our classmates are really going to be feeling it this morning.”

He walks beside her, sweating profusely. She’s clearly figured him out, and he keeps expecting her to bring it up, to blindside him or blackmail him or even to just try and get him to talk about it with her so she can “help” him, but she stays true to her word and doesn’t bring it up again, instead chatting about one asinine topic or another. He can’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, but as she continues her babble he also can’t help but to relax the slightest bit.

In the dining hall, the Golden Deer House are all sitting together, and some indeed are looking worse for wear than others. Ignatz, in particular, is looking rough, his face as green-tinged as his hair, facedown on the table. Lorenz slides in next to him because he seems the least odious dining companion right now. 

“You’re all pathetic,” Lysithea says. “I knew better than to drink, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be so irresponsible about it. I swear, you’re the children, not me.”

“Says the girl that couldn’t drink because it was too bitter,” Claude says. Lorenz doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t sound particularly hungover. “Also, don’t think I didn’t forget your little stunt last night, trying to hide from Seteth in the bushes instead of running away. For a genius, that was a pretty boneheaded move.”

As Claude and Lysithea devolve into their customary bickering—Lorenz’s eyes still firmly locked away—Hilda sighs and leans forwards on the table. “I had a lot of fun and I’m glad you guys all did something for me, but I just _know_ Seteth is going to have me mucking out stables until we graduate. You all owe me big time for distracting him.”

“I’d be happy to repay you somehow,” Sylvain starts, before remembering who he’s talking to. “Except by mucking out the stables for you.”

Everyone is acting very normal. Raphael is shoveling down amounts of food that would be truly unprecedented if Lorenz did not see him do the very same at every meal. Marianne is saying a silent prayer before eating. Leonie’s complaining about the freshness of the meat, which Lorenz must agree is subpar. Everyone has terrible posture and is putting their elbows on the table. It’s like nothing has changed, like he’s the only one viewing the world in a new light. He feels strangely separate from them with the knowledge that by the light of the day, nothing as all had changed for them, only him.

And then Leonie’s asking him, “so did you get away from Seteth last night?”

And he answers, “I did, but I think I may have lost my flower for good.” And it’s like he’s a part of them once again.

“The professor has much skill at finding items people are losing,” Petra says. “Maybe you should be asking her if she has been seeing… has seen it anywhere?”

“I heard a rumor she found a chloroform rag and returned it to Hubert, and he just admitted it was his and took it,” Sylvain says. “That’s weird, right?”

It’s easy to fall back into the pattern of things, as long as he ignores Claude. It makes him truly realize that for the first time since Alkund, he has peers that he respects and trusts and wants to spend time with, for all their faults and foibles. He’s really started to make… friends here. It should make him realize just how much he has to lose if they find him out, but for now, he just finds it comforting. As long as he never had to acknowledge Claude ever again, he’ll be in the clear… Well, he supposes for the sake of his political career he must be able to look the next leader of the Alliance in the eye, but that’s something he can work on. For now, he lets himself be pulled into his companion’s tomfoolery for once.

On the way to class, he watches his fellow students to see if they’re watching him any more than they normally do, naturally drawn to his noble grace. Normally, he appreciates any appraising looks he receives, but today he can’t help but feel like any eyes on him are because they’ve heard about Lorenz’s behavior last night. 

He sees Ferdinand von Aegir waving at him. He tenses. In his paranoid mindset, he can’t think of any reason Ferdinand would want to approach him so soon before the start of lessons other than having heard a rumor about last night. Ferdinand is in the same class as Dorothea, the premiere gossip of Garreg Mach, after all—as much as Lorenz had hoped Ferdinand might join the Golden Deers—so if anyone knew, he likely did as well. As Ferdinand does a jaunty trot over to him, he tries to remind himself that there are plenty of other reasons that Ferdinand might speak to him. 

“Lorenz, my dear friend,” Ferdinand says, smiling brilliantly. “I have just received a new blend of Bergamot that I believe you would enjoy. Would you do me the honor of taking tea with me tomorrow? You are the only one at Garreg Mach I know who would properly appreciate the subtleties of its flavor.” 

Lorenz felt his shoulders relax. Perhaps no one from other classes really knew of what happened last night. “I would be delighted to,” he tells Ferdinand, and he’s not lying. While Ferdinand is a very attractive young man, the kind Lorenz would normally hope to avoid for temptation’s sake, his noble bearing and dedication to decorum makes it easy to keep a proper amount of distance between them. A tea break with him would do wonders to reestablish his feeling of control over himself.

“In that case, I will see you tomorrow.” Once again, even though it feels like everything should be different, normality reigns. The world is exactly the same as it was yesterday, and Lorenz can let himself return to how things are meant to be. Ferdinand bids him goodbye, giving him just enough time to get to class right before the first lesson starts.

Classes pass normally that day. Flayn is clearly a bit upset when she hears they got together without her but says she understands, as her brother wouldn’t have let her out that late anyway, and she would have had far further to sneak to meet up with them. The professor gives them all a dressing down, but her emotionless expression (even more uncanny with the light green hair and eyes now) isn’t great at instilling any sense of disapproval or negative consequences, so there really isn’t much point to it. Lorenz is riding the high of the normality when Claude makes his move. Lorenz had figured out last week that it was impossible to both ignore Claude for his own sanity and to be privy to all his little schemes, and he had chosen his own sanity. This has worked in the past, but apparently not so much when one of his schemes was getting Lorenz alone. 

Lorenz is heading back to his room, cradling his slightly squashed flower accessory. Petra had been right—the professor had come sprinting up to Lorenz to show him all of the lost and found items she had collected, and it had been one of them. He’d barely thanked her and taken it back before she was pelting off to show her collection the next person. Odd woman. A strange choice for the goddess’s revelation later this month. He’s thinking about the best way to iron the petals back to perfection (a commoner would know more about menial tasks such as that, so perhaps he would ask one of them for help) when he hears a throat clear in front of him. Claude is standing in front of the door to his room. 

“Can I come in?” he asks. “I feel like we should talk.”

So, it wasn’t much of a scheme, showing up directly to his front door and asking to be let in as politely as he was capable of (not very) but if Lorenz had been watching him like normal, he would have been able to avoid this ambush. He wants to do an about-face and walk away, but he knows that would only be prolonging the inevitable. 

Picturing Claude in his room, he’s stuck by the fear that he somehow didn’t clean up all the evidence of last night—as if he didn’t work himself raw making sure he did—and that Claude will enter and take one look and know exactly what happened. Saints, with the way that man’s mind works, maybe he’ll notice the new sheets and clean floors and somehow put it together through the lack of evidence. 

But that’s ridiculous, and as much as he wishes Claude paid close enough attention to him to notice a change in identical sheets, it’s simply not true. Lorenz has to learn to face this, to find out what their new dynamic will be. He sighs, deeply. “Very well. We can talk. _Briefly_.”

He lets Claude into his room. Part of him is nervous beyond measure that the boy he can finally admit that he likes is alone in his room with him after they kissed, but more of him feels tired and angry and numb. 

“Nice room. Very tidy,” Claude tells him, and for a second his illogical fear that Claude’s figured everything out comes back, but he shakes it off.

Pleasantries, Lorenz can do. He can rattle them off in his sleep, instilled into him as they were at a young age, the right question and answer for every situation. There’s not one he knows for a situation exactly like this, but that doesn’t mean he can’t forge ahead. 

“Of course, von Riegen,” he responds. “It’s imperative for a noble to keep their spaces tidy and clean to serve as an example to the masses. Now, how is this day suiting you?”

“I just wanted to—”

“That’s wonderful. It truly is a beautiful day, don’t you agree?”

“I—” 

“I hear that the fish are especially plentiful at the pond today.”

“Would you please let me say what I came here to say?”

He sighs deeply. He said he was done delaying the inevitable, but it’s hard to actually go through with it. “Fine. What do you want, Claude?” 

Despite the fact that Claude was the one pushing to talk, now that he has the opportunity, he’s silent. He flexes his hands, continues to peer around Lorenz’s room. “I want to apologize for last night.” His words are careful and measured. “I clearly made you very uncomfortable, and while that wasn’t my intention, it was the outcome.” He tries to meet Lorenz’s eyes and Lorenz has to look away. “So, I’m sorry I did that to you. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that or made you do anything you didn’t want to. I was a complete asshole to you and I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lorenz grits out from between his clenched teeth. 

“Yeah, that whole deal is part of it,” Claude says. “Like I said, it’s different where I come from. I didn’t realize it might be such a fraught topic for you.”

Lorenz balls his fists in his hands, crushing his newly returned flower ever further. He wants to scream: _You’ve used me, used things about me that are secret and personal, for your own ends, when you had no right to. You took the most vulnerable parts of me and exposed them like they were nothing! For your own amusement!_ Instead, he nods. “Thank you for your apology. Now, if that was all?”

But Claude doesn’t move to leave. “Listen, I… I didn’t realize how… personal it was for you. I wasn’t planning on Hilda asking that or anything. But when it happened, I just thought, hey, you’re kinda cute, you were clearly attracted to me when I flirted with you before but didn’t want to admit it, what a better time and place to try a kiss than somewhere surrounded by supportive friends, with an excuse for why you did it?” The direct reference that he desires Claude—that it’s something obvious—is overshadowed only by the fact Claude admitted that, to at least a small degree, the desire is reciprocated. Claude, still not understanding how these things work to Lorenz, that those two bombshells need their own time to be digested, continues. “I thought I was helping you face yourself, but I let my own desires cloud my judgment. I let myself think I knew best for you, but I was wrong.”

Lorenz takes a shaky breath in, forgets to release it. It’s all too much. He can’t handle dealing with this now. “Thank you, Claude, for admitting that you were wrong. You usually refuse to acknowledge it even when it’s so often overwhelmingly obvious, so this was a nice treat.” Claude starts to smile tentatively at him, perhaps thinking himself forgiven already. “However, I have no idea what you’re talking about, everything you just said was entirely wrong, and you’re never going to even imply such ludicrous ideas again.” He meets Claude’s eyes directly for the first time all day, tries to impart everything he can never say out loud with just a look. “Do you understand me?”

Claude swallows, then nods. Lorenz can’t stand the pity in his eyes, but it’s better than when Claude didn’t understand anything. “Yes, Lorenz. If that’s really what you want, then I understand.” 

“If you can stick to that, then I don’t believe we’ll have any more problems.” He holds Claude’s gaze for another few seconds before turning away towards his desk. “Now, if that claptrap was all you had to say, then I must ask you to excuse me. I have some work I must get done.”

“Er, right. Sorry. I’ll just get out of your hair then.” Claude makes for the door slowly, like he expects Lorenz to stop him or change his mind, but Lorenz never does. Claude quietly lets himself out, and as soon as he does Lorenz slumps into his chair, in an incredibly un-noble posture. 

This should feel like a victory—he’s just turned down the most direct temptation yet, the very man he wants most admitting that he—to at least some degree, in one way or another—wants him too. Lorenz has just conquered something he never even thought he’d have to face directly, looked all he wanted in the eye and had enough self-control to say, “no.” He should be proud of himself. Instead, he just feels tired. 

He looks at his artificial flower, now resting on his desk. It’s crumpled, but he’ll be able to fix it with the help of his more handy friends and a little elbow grease. He knows intimately well that even broken things can become beautiful if you fix up their exteriors. As he fiddles with the petals, tries to start fixing them on his own, he wonders about the mission this month, if in the Holy Mausoleum the goddess really will bestow upon the professor a revelation, and if she does, if she will see into the hearts of all those are there as well. He wonders what the goddess will think of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then the timeskip happens and he _totally_ works all his issues out and accepts himself and is _completely_ fine guys, don’t worry about it.
> 
> But seriously, If you would really like to see this continued with a part 2 actually depicting post-timeskip Lorenz coming to terms with his sexuality (and classism and sexism) and an eventual relationship with Claude, leave a comment! If there’s enough interest, maybe I’ll return to this… after I actually finish playing Verdant Winds. Plot twist! Neither I (nor my beta) have completed our VW playthroughs (though I’ve seen most of the supports.) Hopefully you couldn’t tell?
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading this and making it all the way to the bitter, _bitter_ end. This is the first fic I’ve posted online since middle school and FFN, and everyone’s comments and kudos have meant the world to me. My twitter is [aguiltybystandr](https://twitter.com/aguiltybystandr) and my tumblr is [guitybystanders](https://guiltybystanders.tumblr.com). I will probably be writing more angsty FE3H character studies soon, so if you liked this, look out for that. 
> 
> And thanks once again to the irreplaceable [vellev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellev), for his support, his editing, and his song choices! Here is his final Beta Note:  
> [Lorenz after yoinkin' it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7yg05svXp98)


End file.
